Hospital Doors
by superwholockian221b
Summary: My first fic, so please be nice :) "Nobody has a good experience of hospitals" but it seems that Team Free Will have it worse than most. What started as just another hunt goes badly wrong, landing Dean in a hospital bed. T for some language and angst. Warning: Main Character Death
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

When the doors of the hospital close behind him, it is as if the outside world is instantly cut off.

The low hum of distant traffic, rustle of leaves in the soft wind and chatter of people walking the streets is instantly silenced by the thick layer of glass, and the biting chill of the winter air that sends shivers down his spine is replaced by the uncomfortable, prickling warmth of air-conditioning. The smells and tastes of the outside are smothered by the skulking cloud of antiseptic-scented air that fills the building like a choking blanket, barely managing to disguise the sense of illness and disease that clings to every surface.

The flickering lights illuminate the walls and floor, all painted the same shade of very slightly off-white intended to make the space seem clean and welcoming but managing to make it seem clinical, almost sinister. Walking through the hallways is reminiscent of walking through a cemetery; harmless, innocent, but there is always that feeling of death and sadness, the impression that if he really tried he could see the ghosts of the patients that have walked this tiled floor, decades of the injured and diseased.

Some of them got out; led long lives, found love, comfort, happiness. Others didn't. It doesn't matter their story. They each leave their imprints, their memory, something that no amount of soap and scrubbing can get rid of.

Nobody has a good experience of hospitals. They're not there for you to spend time in, to enjoy being there. They're there for you to get out of as quickly as possible, whether you're the sick child clasping her beloved soft toy as she tries to get some sleep or the anxious father pacing up and down outside the maternity wards while the seconds drag by like hours.

All this he takes in, all these thoughts cross his mind, within moments of entering the building. Around him people move, dozens of people each with their own stories, their own reasons for being there. None of those people matter at the moment. All that matters to him is that they don't get between him and his destination, for their sake. None of them do. It is as if, unconsciously, they move to let him pass, some part of their brains telling them that this man, striding down the corridor, coat flapping behind him, has a place to be, a place to go, and they don't want to get in the way.

Nurses pushing hospital beds and wheelchairs swerve around him, anxious adults awaiting news absentmindedly reach out a hand to pull their children towards them. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, these people move around him, clearing a path for him, such is the strength of the aura of determination and focus that surrounds him.

At the end of this path lies a white painted desk, a bored girl in her mid twenties sat behind it, tilting on her chair and examining the chipped pink polish on her nails. He quickly closes the distance between the two of them, but she doesn't see him until his shadow falls across her face. She glances up, and recoils slightly when she sees how he's gripping the counter with white knuckles, leaning over until his face is far closer to hers than she is comfortable with.

"Dean Winchester?" he demands.

She stares for a second, taken aback, then remembers herself.

"Sorry?" she asks.

"I'm looking for Dean Winchester," he repeats slowly, urgently. "He was admitted earlier today."

Flustered, she grabs at pieces of scattered paper, sweeping them into a rough pile to clear them off the computer keyboard before beginning to punch keys, her eyes flickering between the buttons and the screen. The whole process seems agonizingly slow to him, and impatiently he drums his fingers on the desk. It's a surprisingly human gesture, something that still lingers in his vessel's mind, long after Jimmy Novak's consciousness has been silenced.

"Here," she says after what seem like an age. "Dean Winchester," the girl pauses, and the look in her eyes tells him that she's trying to think of how to say the next part without seeming insensitive. It still amazes him, sometimes, that while angels possess the power to read a human's thoughts at any given time, humans can do the same themselves by watching the twitches and changes in a face. And it amazes him that, eventually, he has come to be able to do this too.

"Are you family?" she asks hesitantly.

He has to think about this. How could he describe the relationship between him and Dean?

Are they family? Not in the strictest sense; they are not related by blood, although he did once say Castiel was like a brother to him.

Friends, then? But that word doesn't seem to convey the magnitude, the depth of their feelings for each other. He pulled him out of hell and pieced him back together, and in return Dean taught him what it meant to be human, taught him the real meanings of the words loyalty and courage and sacrifice.

A thousand words run through his head, each discarded when it doesn't seem to fit the two of them. At the end, he decides to settle for family.

"Of a sort."

"Okay, it's just, it says here-" she stops talking, sucks in her cheeks, looks up to meet his gaze. "It's pretty bad."

"Please. I need to see him," he begs, and he's not sure whether it's the earnestness in his voice or the way he leans forward or one of a thousand other tiny signals he sends off that eventually cause her to nod, biting her lower lip.

"Room 23, just down the hallway. It's the fourth on the left-" the girl begins but he's already gone, almost running now, shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. It's been too long already; almost twenty-four hours since he first heard about the accident. Twenty-four hours of searching, visiting hospital after hospital until finally he found it, found him. Dean had been taken to a specialist hospital in the next state, which was why his search was fruitless for so long. They didn't have the facilities, the training, to treat injuries as bad as his in any of the local hospitals. And so he searched, gradually becoming more and more desperate.

He reaches the door, and without even hesitating, without stopping for a moment, pushes it open and strides into the room. It was slightly ajar already, and swings back to crash into the wall violently with a loud bang. He doesn't even notice the noise. He's too busy staring at the sight in front of him to care about anything going on around him.

It's Dean Winchester, no doubt about that. He'd recognise that face anywhere. Or at least, the parts of it he can see. Dean's nose is unobscured, peppered with light brown freckles, slightly crooked where it's been broken and not quite healed straight. His eyes, a deep emerald green flecked with liquid gold and framed by long eyelashes. Those, at least, are undamaged. Other parts of his face, though, are cloaked in bandages, a mummy's shroud. From beneath the fresh white cotton, he can see the edges of puckered, burnt skin, and as his eyes trail down the length of his body he takes in his arms, the top of his chest peeking over the pastel green hospital gown, his legs. Bandages are wrapped around these too; not completely covering them but in areas, and he can only guess the horrors that are hidden behind the dressings, the burns and wounds that decorate his friend's body.

Against the sheets he looks frail, thin. It's hard to believe that this is the same man he saw only yesterday. He was laughing then, reaching to take a sip of his beer, tossing friendly insults at Sam over his shoulder. Looking up to meet the angel's eyes, noticing him staring, cracking a joke with a hint of playful suggestion, accompanied by a flirty eyebrow raise that Castiel has come to associate with him being relaxed, comfortable around him, not to be taken seriously. He was healthy, happy, all white teeth and tanned face and muscles. Now, he looks about ten years older.

The bed has been adjusted so it leans upwards, allowing him to sit up and look out the window, which has been left slightly open, the breeze ruffling his hair slightly. He is half-lying, half-sitting; slumped against the sheets, his shoulders sagging and his arms drooping limply by his side. His eyes are only half open, the lids tremble slightly as he gazes listlessly out of the window but by now he knows him well enough to be able to tell that he's not really seeing what's there, that his mind is a million miles away, and he doesn't turn at his entrance.

Instead, they both stay there for a few seconds that seem like days, unmoving, one frozen to the spot and the other unable or unwilling to summon the energy to move or even acknowledge his presence. For a moment Castiel hovers there, uncertain of what to do next, unsure whether he had even noticed his arrival.

"Dean?" he takes a step forward, slowly.

The moment of silence between them stretches on and on, taking an eternity, until finally-

"Cas?" he stirs at his voice, and turns his head slightly to face him. When he sees him he smiles, but not like his normal smile. It is forced, stretched. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. It is the smile of a tired, injured, broken man.

He know it's his turn to say something, but instead he just stands there, stupidly.

"I know, I know. I look like a mess, right?"

"You've looked better, I'll admit."

He laughs at that, only slightly, a small puff of air through his nostrils, but it's enough.

"How do you feel?"

"Honestly?" he looks his friend in the eyes. "I feel like crap, Cas. I nearly died a little while ago, and half my body's still numb from whatever painkillers they've been injecting me with, and the half that's not, I wish it was. My head is killing me and when I move it feels like my entire body's on fire."

He takes an involuntarily step backwards. He knows that this is just Dean's way of letting off steam, of coping with what's happened; he likes to shout, get angry, and soon everything will be okay again, but the words still ring in his ears like an accusation. He should have stopped this. He should have been there. he should have protected him.

Looking at him, Dean's eyes soften.

"Sorry, I'm just... you might've noticed I'm having a really bad day."

When Castiel doesn't respond, his brow furrows.

"Hey, Cas- look at me- Cas, you're not blaming yourself for this?"

The accuracy with which he guesses the thoughts running through his head surprise him. He knows him better than he thought.

"This wasn't your fault."

"I know that."

"I mean it. Things like this happen. It was just our bad luck we were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The truth of his words are undeniable, but they do nothing to comfort him. He swallows, giving himself time to decide what to say.

"I'm supposed to protect you from harm. That's my job. I had one job, and I... I failed."

"Bullshit."

The angel's eyes shoot upwards from the floor to stare at him. He has sat forwards, the pain this movement causes him evident in his face and posture, and his hands are clenched into fists.

"Nobody's expecting you to be perfect, Cas. What the hell do you think you should've done? Huh?" He stares at Castiel, a little smugly, as he searches for an answer and comes up with nothing. "Come on! It was a hunt gone wrong, that's all! If anything, it was my fault. I shoulda known it was a trap from the start. Demons are tricky bastards and it was too easy to track them down."

"You couldn't have known-" he begins.

"And neither could you!" he interrupts, and they both fall silent again. Dean's ragged breathing tells him that little outburst took a lot out of him. The clock on the wall fills the quiet with an echoey, regular tick, and for a little while he listens to that, letting it calm him down. When he opens his mouth to speak again, he looks at his friend and his eyes are closed, his head resting on the pillow and his mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling slowly. A small smile flits across his lips, and he turns to leave, closing the door behind him.

Outside, he nearly bumps into a young woman. She's small, with mousy brown curls bouncing around her face, and looks flustered, arms full of files and loose sheets of paper.

"Sorry," he mutters, attempting to move past her.

"How is he?"

The question takes him by surprise, and she laughs at his obvious confusion, indicating the silver name badge on the white coat he now notices she's wearing.

"I'm Dr. Morten. I'm just checking up on him."

"Oh. He's asleep at the moment. He seemed okay. Normal."

"He was awake?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't he be?"

She bites her lower lip, looking around until she spies a small waiting area, empty.

"Would you like to sit down?"

He does as she asks, and she sits opposite him, crossing one leg over the other and opening one of her files, flicking through pages until she finds the one she's looking for.

"You're family?"

That question again. The answer comes quicker to him this time.

"As close as."

"Okay. The thing is, Mr..." she trails off and it takes him a moment to realise this is a prompt for him to tell her his name. It would be so much simpler if she'd just ask.

"Castiel. Castiel-" he pauses for a split second. "Novak."

"Mr. Novak. The thing is, Dean has sustained some serious damage. You're aware of what happened, right? The police think it might have been a severed gas line, and maybe an electrical fault, or something like that. The explosion leveled the building, he was lucky to get out of there alive. Still, there was shrapnel, and he sustained a serious head injury. To be honest with you, we weren't sure he was going to wake up. Was he talking?"

He nods.

"And he seemed lucid? He was acting normally?"

Nod.

"That's good. Means there's no obvious cranial trauma. We'll give him a while, let him get some rest. Of course, I'll have to examine him when he wakes up again. Until then, could you help me with this? There's just a few forms that need to be filled out. He didn't have any identification on him. We got a name out of him, but that's it."

He spends the next few minutes answering the questions she throws at him. Date of birth, next of kin, et cetera et cetera. Some of the facts are true; others not so much. Then she suggests he leave a phone number so the hospital can contact him if Dean's condition changes. The question throws him off balance for a second. He hadn't really thought about it until now, but on reflection the hospital probably wouldn't let him stay with him until he was ready to leave. That could take weeks, and although he doesn't need to sleep or eat it wouldn't be wise to draw attention to this fact, so after a moment's pause he jots down a phone number and announce that he's leaving to get some sleep, but she shouldn't hesitate to get in touch if needed. Every instinct in his body screams out at him not to leave, to stay, keep an eye on him, make sure nothing else happens, but people would get suspicious when they noticed that he seemed different to other people.

As soon as he is out of sight of the hospital he disappears, in search of something to occupy himself with until Dean wakes up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow, thank you so much for the reviews. I honestly didn't expect anyone to actually read this, so thank you! I'll try to update whenever I can, so bear with me :)  
**

**Chapter 2**

Several hours later, his phone rings.

"Mr. Novak?"

For a second he's confused, about to say that the speaker has the wrong number and hang up until he remember that's the identity he's using.

"Speaking."

"I'm sorry it's so late. It's about Dean Winchester."

"I'll be there in a second."

He hangs up before they have a chance to reply, and forces himself to wait for a few minutes. He could just appear directly in the middle of the hospital, but that probably wouldn't go down well. Ten minutes pass until he can't bear the wait any longer, and he steps forward and when his foot hits the ground he's standing outside the hospital. He quickly makes his way to Dean's room where Dr. Morten is checking the readout on the machine by his bed, scribbling down numbers. When he enters she turns round, looking at him oddly.

"That was fast."

"I was in the vicinity."

"Obviously."

"You wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes. Well, not me exactly. He was asking for you," she moves to the side slightly and Dean grins at him. His heart lifts for a second; he'd been worried, but his friend seems okay.

"Hey, Cas."

"Hello Dean."

"I'll just leave you two alone," the doctor announces, jotting down the final numbers and putting her pen back into her pocket. She leaves, closing the door behind her.

"You look better."

"No I don't."

He frowns. He'd thought people liked to be complimented on their appearance, even if it was a lie.

Dean seems to mistake his confused silence as a sign of expectation.

"Look, I'm sorry about yelling at you earlier."

"It's okay. I'm sorry for-"

He raises a finger.

"Don't he dare. If you say 'I'm sorry for not protecting you' or something like that I swear I'm gonna hurl. Or punch you. Maybe both."

"Punch me?" He raises an eyebrow. It doesn't look like Dean can even stand. He huffs, but his eyes are twinkling.

"Okay, maybe not," he admits, then pauses, his eyes scanning the room and his brow furrowing slightly. "Hey, where's Sam?"

Castiel's heart sinks, but he says nothing.

"I haven't seen him yet. you'd think he'd come and check up on his brother, right?"

Still he doesn't answer, refusing to meet his eye.

"He's okay, right? I mean, he was closer to the door than me. He should have got out alright."

He searches through his brain for something to say.

'Cas? Cas, look at me!" He looks up. Dean's eyes are fixed on him, wide with fear and concern. "Where's Sam?"

"He's... busy at the moment. He'd be here if he could."

Dean's shoulders relax and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Yeah? Well tell him to get his ass over here when he's done with whatever it is. Is he okay? He didn't get hurt too bad?"

"No, he's okay. He's safe," he reassures Dean, and has to swallow the lump that rises in his throat.

He hates having to lie to him, it makes him feel guilty and it takes all his self control to stop himself from throwing himself down in front of him and telling him the truth, apologising for trying to hide it from him- but it's more than that. He hates how easily how the lies come, like honey, dripping smoothly from his lips. How far he's come, from the mindless soldier following orders, faultlessly loyal, pure, perfect. He's killed, and rebelled, and sinned, and turned his back on his father and his brothers and sisters, and he did it all for this man. And what has it led to? He's lying to his friend's face, a skill that he taught him, and he has to lie because he wasn't there to protect him and Sam when they needed him most.

"You were asking for me?" he remembers, in an attempt to change the subject because, to be honest, his lying skills aren't exactly up to scratch and he doesn't want Dean pressing him for details.

"Oh yeah. The demons-"

"Taken care of."

Of course they are. They both know he didn't really need to ask. He had five hours while Dean was asleep to track them down, find the creatures that did this, and when he's determined to do something it gets done. The only real problem was how to spend the other four.

"Good."

He opens his mouth to speak again, but a nurse chooses that moment to walk in and start changing the drip attached to his arm. Dean sits in silence, grimacing at him behind the nurse's back until he leaves and the two of them are alone. He tries to stifle a yawn, but Castiel sees it and remembers that, although he seems fine, Dean's just been through a trauma. He's lucky to be alive but he needs time to heal, and that means letting him sleep.

"I'll just-" he turns to follow the nurse out.

"No."

Castiel looks at him over his shoulder. Dean turns his head to indicate the plastic chair next to his bed.

"Please.'

He tilts his head slightly at him, trying to figure out what he's asking of him.

"You want me to stay with you?"

"Just until I fall asleep. Please, Cas," he begs, and the way he says it and the look in his eyes are enough to stop him from even considering leaving. He sits down in the chair, hands in his lap, ankles crossed.

"Like this?"

"Could you look more awkward if you tried?"

"I'm sorry."

"No need to- yeah, that's fine. That's good."

He settles his head down on the pillow and closes his eyes. It's strange, but Castiel never noticed how long his eyelashes were until now. They cast shadows over his cheekbones, delicate wisps like feathers. He's got nothing else to do; the rest of the room is stark, bare white, so he studies Dean's face. It's the first chance he's really had to do this, and even though large parts of it are still covered in bandage he can focus on the parts left clear, undamaged by the fire and debris.

Like his lips. They're bigger than most, almost feminine. And his hair. He's never thought about it before, but it's hard to place exactly what colour it is. It looks like a mousy, pale brown with streaks of lighter blonde until the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and then it becomes a dirty blonde colour. And his eyes. They're incredibly large and green and-

He realises he's looking at him.

"I thought you were asleep," he mumbles.

"I was. Nearly. But I could tell you were looking at me and it's kinda uncomfortable."

'Sorry."

"Will you stop apologising?"

"Sorry."

"Why are you looking at me anyway?"

"No reason."

"You're freakin' weird, you know that?"

"Yes. You've told me before, several times."

"Well it's true."

"I know. I'm-"

'Don't you dare."

"-sorry."

He bites his lip and grins, and despite himself Castiel smiles back at him. He closes his eyes again, but this time the angel stares fixedly out of the window, refusing to let his eyes wander until Dean's breathing becomes slow and regular and he knows he's asleep. Even then he keeps his gaze firmly fixed in one place, watching the people outside going about their daily lives. It starts to rain, and he sees them reaching for umbrellas in their bags, or pulling jackets over their heads, or quickening their pace in order to get to their destination a little faster.

One little girl slows down, her face turned upwards to the sky, mouth open to catch the raindrops and eyes squinting against the water. She lifts her palms slightly, and her mother turns round to grab her hand and pull her along, arms full of shopping bags that are quickly becoming drenched. The image makes him smile. Here's this girl, her face lit up with wonder and joy at something so simple as water coming out of the sky, that she stops to take it all in. And then there's her mother, who's seen it all before. She doesn't care about the rain; for her it's an everyday thing, a nuisance. The only thing that she cares about is her shopping getting ruined and getting home dry, so she grabs her daughter to hurry her up, because she hasn't got time to indulge her childish habits. In a way, he can relate. When he first came to Earth, everything was so...so new, and fresh, and exciting. His first vessel, and he learned that sitting up in heaven, watching humans from above is nothing like being down there amongst them. The Winchesters were used to it, of course; although in the grand scale of things they're mere infants, if that, in human terms they're mature, grown men. Life had exhausted its supply of new and amazing things for them, and he's starting to feel the same way. There's only so much the world has to offer until he starts to peek behind the curtain at the death, the misery and the suffering, and it's all downhill from there.

The thought that one day this little girl, so joyous and happy now, will become like her mother, tired and impatient and unimpressed by life and the world, creates a sinking feeling in his chest and stomach he's come to associate with sadness.

His reverie is interrupted when Dean starts to make noises. He looks down, thinking he's waking up, but his friend's eyes are still firmly shut. His brow is furrowed, and his lips are pouted, parting slightly to let distressed moans escape. He turns his head from side to side, muttering words to himself. He hears Sam's name several times, and his once or twice, but most of his mumbled words are begging, pleading.

"No...no...please..."

He knows enough to recognise that Dean's having a nightmare. A few seconds pass while he sits there helplessly, unsure what to do, before he bites his lip and make a decision. Gently, hesitantly, he reaches out with his mind to touch his.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Dean's dreams are blood and fire and screaming from every direction. He sees a warehouse, abandoned, seemingly empty, and in his mind he connects it to the burnt and blackened shell of a building that stands there now. This is where it happened.

He follows Dean as he slams the trunk of the Impala shut, loading his shotgun, checking the flask of holy water in his pocket. Sam gets out the passenger door and they nod at each other. Treading softly, trying not to alert the demons to their presence (pointless, he thinks- the Impala's not the quietest vehicle ever built) they stand on either side of the door. Sam holds three fingers up... two... one... zero, and throws the door open. Dean enters first, his brother following, and they raise their guns to their shoulders to defend themselves against the enemy that isn't there.

There is a second where they look at each other, Dean's eyebrows raised quizzically and Sam frowning, before they both notice the chair in the middle of the otherwise empty building. Tied to the chair-

"Rob!" Dean shouts, and runs over to untie him. The teenage boy lifts a tear-stained face, pleading eyes, skin rough around his face where the gag has rubbed the skin raw, and Dean unthinkingly rushes straight to his side and starts working on the knots. Sam, on the other hand, holds back. There's something off about this. If the demons knew they were coming, where are they? They're nowhere to be seen, but if he's here they've got to be nearby, or had been recently. If they were hurting the boy, torturing him for whatever reason, why would they just leave him?

'Dean-" he begins, but his brother is too busy trying to undo the knots securing Rob to the chair. Why was Rob there anyway? If the demons were looking for someone to hurt, to play with – Sam shuddered as he recalled the mutilated bodies in the morgue- why would they go to all the trouble of getting him when they could pick a stranger off the street? The son of one of the victims, the boy they'd been questioning and working with over the past few days to try and track down his father's killer... it was almost as if he was there for a reason. As bait, because they knew the brothers would try and help him.

As soon as this realisation hits him, Dean lets out a triumphant noise as the last of the ropes fall away.

"Dean, I don't think you should-" but he is interrupted when Rob looks up and his eyes are coal black, a sadistic grin beginning to spread over his face. Dean takes a few steps back, already heading for the exit, but Sam just stays there, staring at Rob. It takes a second of the two of them looking at each other, Sam trying to figure out what the demon's plan is while it gazes back, smirking, before Sam sees the small black box in his hand. The box with the suspicious-looking button. And his eyes follow the wires leading out of the box down to the ground where they spread out and snake in different directions across the warehouse floor, nearly completely hidden by shadows and dirt, until they meet up with several boxes stacked up against the walls. Still it doesn't click, not until Sam remembers what else had been happening in this town. Not just the deaths, but the robberies. A quick glance at his brother confirms they are both thinking the same thing. Several shops, only a few things missing from each, not enough to take notice of. It just looked like vandals, petty criminals, certainly nothing the brothers were particularly concerned about while masquerading as state police. His mind runs through the list. Gas stations. Hardware stores. And the stuff that was stolen-

"A bomb," he breathes, and starts running. "Dean! It's a bomb!"

His brother hears him and turns and starts sprinting for the exit. Dean turns back for a second, in time to see the monster in Rob's body press his finger down on the button. There's a click, silence- and then the whole world explodes.

That's where the dream ends; he guesses Dean hit his head pretty badly and doesn't remember the last few seconds, doesn't know what happened. But he does. The demon that had been possessing Robert Castle- he'd been using a different body, obviously, after the boy's was destroyed in the fire- had been all too eager to tell him the details. Let him know exactly what happened. How he failed.

But it seems that Dean doesn't know, or at least doesn't remember. He's stuck, the agony of indecision tearing him apart from the inside. If he leaves it, there's a chance, a high one, that in time Dean would remember. He could do something. It wouldn't be the first time he's altered a human's memories. For a moment the idea appeals to him, but at the same time he knows it's wrong. It's one thing to alter a few moments, maybe even a few days, but quite another to change something like this. It's not something he could just forget. It's not something, he realises, that he'd want him to forget. Because it's too easy to get carried away, fill in the gaps by changing more and more until he's left with something completely different.

For now, he decides to leave it. But something in him can't resist pressing, gently, not enough that Dean will remember when he wakes up but just enough to allow him to see the rest of the scene, to see if the demon was telling the truth, because a large part of him hopes he was lying.

He wasn't.

He watches as the building ignites, the roof caving in on itself as the flames roar upwards, devouring everything in their path. Debris rains down, chunks of burning wood and metal, and the warehouse itself seems to buckle and twist. From inside the fire the demon laughs as the flesh of his host burns, his eyes and mouth lit by the blaze, turning him into something even more horrific, the stuff of nightmares, an ancient creature of flames and smoke and ash. He sees all this through Dean's eyes, then the image changes as he looks upwards in time to see a metal bar collapsing from a railing that runs across the wall.

He can't help but wince as it strikes Dean's head, knocking him to the ground and turning his vision black for a few seconds. When he opens his eyes again, he's on the ground, clutching his head, turning to face the door, that rectangle of brightness shining like a beacon through the smoke, although he knows he can't reach it in time. The building is collapsing around him, and the high pitched scream of twisting metal tells him that the rest of the railing is about to fall down on top of him. All he can do now is close his eyes and wait for the inevitable.

Except the inevitable never comes. Though his vision is swimming from the impact, and he's seeing double, and he's going to pass out any second, he can make out Sam stopping by the door, as if sensing Dean's predicament.

"Dean!" the youngest Winchester screams his brother's name and begins running again, back into the warehouse. He skirts the debris and within seconds is at his brother's side, taking his hand, pulling him upwards. He knows it's hopeless though, that Dean is on the brink of consciousness and when he closes his eyes there's no way Sam will be able to get them both out in time.

And with a final piercing shriek, the railing gives way, a twisted hunk of burning metal plummeting towards them, and Sam does the only thing he can think of at that moment.

With a final pull, teeth gritted, he drags Dean to the side and throws himself over his brother as the railing hits the ground.

Castiel opens his eyes then, pulling out of Dean's mind quickly. He's seen all he needed to see. Enough to know for certain that the demon was telling the truth. He doesn't need to, doesn't _want_ to see the rest.

He doesn't want to watch Sam Winchester die.

He runs a hand through his dark hair and lets out the breath he realises he's been holding in. He knows it's ridiculous, but some part of him had been hoping that, despite all the evidence, it wasn't true, that Sam was still alive, that he'd escaped the warehouse. And now he knows it's true, he feels like he's been punched in the stomach, only a thousand times worse.

When Castiel first met Sam, he held nothing but contempt for him. The boy with the demon blood, the abomination, Lucifer's vessel. The one who set the Devil free and started the Apocalypse. It wasn't something as strong as revulsion, or hate – he was an angel, a Warrior of God. Detached, emotionless. He'd simply viewed Sam with slightly more disdain that he viewed the rest of the human race. But as time passed, as he started to turn away from Heaven and become more like a human being, he started to feel emotions, and they weren't the ones he expected to feel. It wasn't as though a switch flipped in his mind; he still retained that sense of antipathy towards the youngest surviving Winchester, but they were mixed with feelings of what he learned to identify as pity and sympathy. He could see that Sam was a good person at heart, that even after all he'd been through he could still tell right from wrong, and did the best he could with the cards he was dealt. He'd just made some bad choices, and most of the time he'd been coerced and manipulated into making them.

And eventually that feeling of superiority over this boy dwindled into a sense of respect and, in some ways, admiration. Despite everything that life threw at him, despite destiny and fate, Sam Winchester still remained by his brother's side, always fought for what was right. He was always ready to help, always wanted to do what he could to make the world a better place in any way he could. No matter how much he lied, and cheated, he always tried to make things right afterwards. He didn't deserve anything that had happened to him.

He didn't deserve to die. Not like that.

Castiel realises his face feels wet. With a kind of detached fascination he lifts his fingers to his cheek and they come back damp. He's crying, he thinks. It's not something he's ever done before. Angels can cry, of course, but he's never really had occasion to. Never felt the need, to be honest with himself. Crying doesn't solve problems, yet here he is, tears running down his face. All of a sudden, this room feels too small, too cramped. He needs to get outside, get away from it all. It feels like running away, like taking the easy way out, but he doesn't care.

With one last glance at Dean, he stretches his wings and leaves the room.

He doesn't know where he's going, has no particular destination in mind. He just needs to get some air, to feel the wind rushing through his wings, to feel, just for a moment, that everything is fine and he has nothing to worry about. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up towards the sun, feeling the tears drying on his cheeks and for a second he feels free, unburdened. Happy.

It only lasts for a moment though. Eventually he has to fight the instinct to just fly away, to leave and never come back, and his feet alight on hard pavement. To any human observers, it would appear as if he'd just materialised out of thin air. For a second he stands there, allowing the rush in his head to stop, then opens his eyes again.

And instantly wishes he hadn't.

In front of him stands the burnt and hollowed-out facade of a building, all scorched bricks and peeling paint. The wreckage still smokes slightly, and the area around the building is plastered in yellow tape with black printed letters, warning people to stay out, as if anyone would want to venture inside.

He fights the instinct to fly away again. He'd landed here randomly, unconsciously, simply forced himself to stop before he lost himself in the sky and the clouds, but something must have drawn him to this spot. He allows his grace to stretch out around him, feeling cautiously for anything that might have attracted his attention. There's something there, faint but definitely there, and he probes at it gently, trying to work out what it is.

A small smile flits across his face, but his eyes remain full of sadness.

"Hello, Sam."

Something shifts in the air; an answer, a greeting.

"You should have left here by now."

He tilts his head slightly to hear the answer, closing his eyes to filter out any distractions.

"I know. I understand."

He opens his eyes again, and can make out Sam standing there in front of him. He looks healthy, alive, but there's something about him, something insubstantial. Nobody passing by would be able to see him; it's quickly sapping the angel's power to be able to communicate with him like this. They don't have long.

"So I'm dead, huh."

"Indeed."

"Wow. Okay. I should probably be used to this by now."

A small silence passes between the two of them, each wanting to say something but not sure how to express it.

"I'm not coming back, am I?"

Castiel shakes his head.

"There's nothing to bring back. Your body-" he trails off and they both glance at the smoldering warehouse. "Even if there were something left..."

"I get it. Life's done with me. I gotta say, it's kinda a relief. At least now I get to experience the whole 'rest in peace' thing now. I just didn't really think it was gonna happen like this."

"Like what?"

"Like that," he waves a hand. "I thought it'd be something more dramatic, you know?"

Castiel frowns.

"It was an explosion. What's not dramatic about that?"

"Nothing. Guess I just thought I'd at least get to take out whatever did it with me."

"The demon is dead."

"Good to know." Sam pauses for a second, obviously trying to figure out how to phrase what he wanted to say. "How's... how's Dean holding up?"

"He's currently in hospital. He's recovering."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

The silence from Castiel is all he needs.

"He doesn't... he doesn't know?" His voice hitches on the last word.

"He suffered extreme cranial trauma. Temporary memory loss is a common side effect."

"Jesus, Cas."

"He will remember, in time. It's just a matter of how long."

"You're just gonna wait for him to remember?"

"What other choice do I have?"

"Oh, I dunno. Maybe tell him? He's gonna be pissed when he finds out you didn't."

"I doubt that would be his first reaction when he remembers."

"You think?"

"Yes, I do."

"Sarcasm, Cas."

"Oh."

"Jesus," Sam repeats to himself, running his fingers through his long hair. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it quickly and looks around, eyes wide. "Shit."

"What is it?"

"The reaper. Uh," he swallows. "My reaper. He's here."

"You have to go with him."

"I know. Believe me, I have no intention of sticking around and going all vengeful spirit on your asses. Just..."

"What?"

"Please, stay with him. He's lost dad, he's lost me. Don't make him lose you too."

"I won't."

"I mean it, Cas. Look, he won't admit it, and he'd kill me if he knew I'd told you," Sam winces at the unintentional phrasing "but he needs you. You two, you're like... I dunno. And I don't know if it's best friends or soul mates or, or profound bonds or whatever, but you're part of his life now. A big one. And that's not gonna change. And... and I think you need him too."

Castiel is left speechless.

"Shit. Okay. I think... it's time. Uh, when he remembers, tell him I said hi. Or not. Tell him, uh, that I appreciate everything he did for me. Raising me and everything. And tell him I'll be waiting when he's ready to join the party. Just not too soon, alright?"

The angel nods. Sam swallows, and turns to face something that Castiel can't see.

"Okay. I'm ready."

He closes his eyes and tilts his face upwards slightly, eyebrows furrowed in anticipation. There's a second where time seems frozen, unmoving, and to Castiel it's just him and Sam, and all the things he wanted to say but couldn't, didn't have the time or the vocabulary to express what he meant. _I'm sorry_ being a large part of that, sorry for everything he's been through since Castiel crashed into their lives but sorry for everything that happened before that, sorry that it had to be him, sorry that he couldn't have a normal life like everybody else. There's more, too.

_You were a good person, no matter what anyone else says._

_It wasn't all your fault._

_Your brother loves you, he always did, despite the fights and the arguments._

_Your dad did too, he just didn't know how to show it._

_Your mother would be proud of you._

_Thank you, for everything. _

_For saving my life more times than I can count._

_For accepting me and loving me as a friend, a brother, even when I didn't deserve it._

_For taking my side and standing with me._

These words lie, unspoken, on his tongue, and he wants to scream them out loud but knows he wouldn't have time now. Instead he just stands there, watching, as the boy with the demon blood fades out of view, and knows that this time it's permanent. Eventually, he finds his tongue again, and tries to find the words to end this moment, even though he know that it's too late, that they will fall on deaf ears. Still, he has to say it.

"Rest in peace, Sam Winchester."

And with that he turns on his heel and disappears into the shadows, as the rain slows down and stops. The grey clouds break to let through a few rays of sunlight that fall on the last wisps of smoke rising into the air.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Bobby Singer is angry.

Of course, that tends to be his usual state of mind, his default setting, but this time he's angrier than usual. He storms around the house, muttering under his breath and slamming doors. He's so wrapped up in himself he doesn't notice Castiel's appearance in the kitchen.

"Damn idjits. Can't even pick up the damn phone," he curses as he bangs a glass down on the table and turns to get himself a drink. When he sees the angel standing behind him he nearly falls over and grabs onto the edge of the table, swearing under his breath.

"You tryna kill me, boy?"

"My apologies. I was about to alert you to my presence."

It strikes him as amusing that Bobby refers to him as 'boy'. After all, he's far older than the old man could probably even imagine.

"Can't you make some noise, or something? Phone ahead, let me know you're coming, so you don't scare the living crap outta me!"

"Again, I'm sorry. In future, I will let you know when I'm coming."

"Alright," Bobby indicates the bottle of whiskey on the side. "You want some?"

"No, thank you."

He's tasted whiskey before, a foul-tasting liquid that burned his throat and stomach and made his eyes water.

"At least pass it here then."

He does as he is asked and watches Bobby pour it into the glass. There is a long silence as he drains the liquid and pulls a face. Why anyone would want to drink something that they obviously disliked the taste of is beyond Castiel, but then again, a lot of things don't make sense to him.

"I take it you're not here to chat about the weather, then. And I'm guessing it's got something to do with why the boys aren't answering their phones."

"Yes."

"Let me guess. They've gone running off without thinking again, they've got themselves in trouble and they want us to clean up their messes."

"Not exactly."

Something in the angel's voice makes Bobby look up, frowning.

"What is it? Dammit, what happened?"

"There was... an accident," he attempts, but it wasn't an accident, not really. They were lured to that warehouse.

Inwardly, he curses the limitations of human language. Castiel speaks every language known to man, and thousands more man could only dream of, but this one is by far the most limiting. It is said that the Inuits have a hundred different words for snow. In Enochian, there is a thousand. There is a word for the pure, white snow that sparkles in the early morning sun. There is a word for the first snow of the year, that falls in thick white flakes but melts away when it hits the ground. Compared to that, the human tongue seems clumsy, ineffectual, and often he finds himself struggling to express what he's trying to say.

"What happened?"

The old man's eyes are afraid now, and Castiel remembers that these boys are like sons to him. They may as well be his own flesh and blood; their real father was never there for them, and Bobby never had children, so it was only natural that they would fill the gaps in each other's lives.

"There was a bomb," he decides to get straight to the point. Bobby's eyes widen and he turns pale, left momentarily speechless.

"Wha- are they alright?"

"Dean is recovering in hospital as we speak."

"And Sam?"

Castiel's silence tells him more than words ever could.

"I'm sorry."

"No. No, I don't-" he stops, breathes in deeply and stands up straight. "That's not funny."

"I assure you, I'm not trying to be amusing."

"Then..." He looks as though he is about to faint, or be sick, or both. Shaking, he reaches for a chair and sinks down into it, holding his head in his hands. He steadies himself and looks up.

"Okay. Okay. What have we gotta do?" and his voice is quiet, detached.

"I don't understand."

"To bring him back, you moron! Is there some spell, some ritual? Can't you pull him out of wherever he's ended up?"

"It's not that simple."

"Why not, dammit?"

"You don't seem to understand. I am cut off from most of Heaven's power. Something like this... it's beyond me. I'm sorry."

"What about one of the other angels?"

"Who? I've killed my own brothers and sisters. Nobody in their right mind would ally with me. It's no secret that anyone who tries to help me ends up getting hurt."

"There must be someone-"

"There isn't. I'm sorry. And even if there were, if they got caught... the wrath of Heaven is something I would not wish on anyone."

"So, what, that's it? You're just gonna give up?"

That comment ignites a spark of anger in his chest, and he steps closer to Bobby, fury filling his mind.

"You think I've just given up? You don't think that I've spent the last _day_ searching for ways to bring him back? You think I haven't thought of every possible option we have? Listen to me, Robert, there is no way that I could bring him back this time. The Plan, Destiny, whatever you wanna call it, it doesn't matter anymore. Life is done with him now, and maybe-" he inhales, not wanting to say the next words but knowing he has to. "Maybe it's better this way."

"Wha-" Bobby is lost for words. "What do you mean?"

"You have no idea. I reached out to him once. Touched his mind. It's not one of my finest moments, I'll admit, he had no idea I was doing it. What I saw there..."

"What was it like?" Despite himself, Bobby seems a little fascinated.

"Dark, mostly. There's a lot... he blames himself. Blamed himself. For everything. He thought that if he had never been born, his mother would still be alive. His father too. He would never have started hunting and Dean would have had a normal life. And he blames himself for Jessica Moore dying, and for Dean going to hell, and for Lucifer being freed, and for so much more."

Bobby's shaking his head now, not wanting him to go on, but he has to.

"This is his chance to finally be at rest. He can make his amends with the people he cared about, and he can be together with Jessica the way he always wanted. Look, I'm not saying I don't care. I just think that as there is nothing we can do, we may as well look on the bright side."

"Yeah? And what did Dean have to say about that?"

"Dean... doesn't know yet."

"He doesn't know?"

Sometimes Castiel wonders why humans have the infuriating habit of repeating everything said to them.

"No."

"When are you gonna tell him?"

"I don't know yet. I need to find the right time."

"Well you better, or I will."

"You seem to be taking this very well."

"Guess it still hasn't had time to sink in yet. That he's really gone, I mean."

"I'm sorry. If I'd been there-"

"Oh, don't start." Bobby's voice is gruff. "It's happened, hasn't it? Moping won't bring him back."

"I suppose."

"So how are you gonna do it? Tell him?"

"I don't know. To be perfectly honest with you... I don't want to."

"Well, you're gonna have to."

"Not necessarily."

He looks up, confused for a second, before he sees the sadness in Castiel's eyes and something in his brain clicks.

"Oh no. No, no, no. No way."

"I know it would be wrong, but-"

"Damn right it would be wrong!"

Bobby slams his hand on the table.

"You have no right to do that! What, you think it would be better for him to just make him forget?"

"Maybe."

"What would you do, anyway? How much would you change?"

"I don't know."

"He'd ask questions! You'd have to make him totally forget he ever had a brother."

"I know. I mean, I could fill the gaps with false memories, but something as big as that... it would change him. Sam was such a big part of his life, to just erase him..."

"It wouldn't be right. Which is why you're not going to do it."

Castiel meets his eyes, a look of desperation and fear on his face.

"I just... I don't want to put him through that. If I told him the truth-"

"_When_ you tell him the truth." Bobby interrupts.

"Yes. I don't want him to have to suffer like that. I don't want him to have to go through that pain."

"I know, boy. I know. It'll tear him apart. But that's life. I should know. I had to shoot my wife through the head," he lifts a finger to his temple, indicating the spot where the bullet entered her brain. "I had to watch her die and know that it was my fault, because I couldn't save her."

"How did you cope?"

He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head to indicate the bottle of whiskey. Castiel bites his lip, and the old man's expression softens.

"If you really wanna know... it was hard. Nearly put a bullet through my own head a few times. But eventually, I just came to terms with the fact that it had happened. It was over with, and crying wouldn't change that, and killing myself wouldn't change that. She was dead, and that was that."

He breathes deeply.

"I focused on what I did have instead of what I'd lost. Mainly, the boys." The angel can see that talking about them pains Bobby, knowing that they'd never be 'the boys' again. Now it was only Dean. Nevertheless, he continues talking. "They needed me, so I carried on. It was rough, but when John dropped them off on my doorstep for the first time, I looked at them and I thought 'you gotta carry on, Robert. You gotta do it for them, because they're relying on you to look after them.' So, I did. I'm never gonna be over it, but I'm not thinking about it all the time either, and I guess that's as good as I'm gonna get."

"So..." Castiel frowns. "You want me to bring him children?"

Bobby laughs.

"No, I think... probably not a good idea. But think about it. He has to focus on what he has left. And that's me and you."

Bobby pours another drink, and looks up.

"Could you... I need some time. To, you know..."

Castiel nods sympathetically. He beats his wings and disappears, but in the split second before he is gone he sees tears spring to the old man's eyes and he buries his head in his hands, shoulders shaking, mourning the boy who was the closest thing he ever had to a son.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

When he visits Dean again, the sun is streaming through the window and his friend is in a good mood. He seems determined to ignore the pain he is in, and acts like nothing happened at all. They talk for a while, about everything and nothing, and despite himself Castiel finds himself laughing and smiling along with Dean. Just for a moment he can pretend to himself that everything is okay, that any minute Sam is going to walk through the door and they can be one big, dysfunctional family again.

Dean mentions his brother a few times, joking about how he'll kill him for not visiting, but Castiel assures him that he would come if he could, that he's busy at the moment taking care of some things but he will be back as soon as possible. He must be giving off some unconscious signal begging Dean not to press him for information, because Dean lets it go at that.

They watch daytime TV together, Dean complaining about the lack of interesting subject matter and Castiel trying to persuade him to buy everything on the shopping channels. He becomes increasingly frustrated as Dean just laughs at him when he tries to explain that they need these products, the woman said so and she should know, it's her job. Eventually they settle on a wildlife documentary about the Amazon rainforest, and watch it together, side by side, in total silence.

And when Dean falls asleep, Castiel stays sat beside him, watching his chest rise and fall steadily with a small smile on his face.

_He needs you. And I think you need him too._

_He has to focus on what he has left._

The words ring in his ears and he knows, at that moment, that he's never going to leave Dean's side again. He'll never let anything hurt him ever again.

And his heart twists when he remembers that, eventually, when he hears the truth, Dean is going to be hurt again, and he is the one who is going to do it.

The next day, he walks into the room and knows instantly that something is wrong.

Dean is still in bed, with tears streaming down his face and his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are pale. Standing beside him is a man in a police uniform, and it doesn't take long for Castiel to realise what's going on.

"I'll... I'll leave you alone," the officer says, a tall, slightly overweight man with a red face and receding hairline, and the sad eyes of a person who's had to break one too many pieces of bad news.

He leaves, glancing up at Castiel as he walks past, as if to say _I'm sorry,_ before the door closes behind him and there is silence in the room.

Castiel is the first to move, holding out the brown paper bag in his hand. When Dean remains motionless, he lays it on the side table.

"I got you some magazines," he says quietly, remembering Dean's complaints of boredom the night before. It had taken him a while to choose which to buy from the corner shop down the street, but he'd chosen some he thought Dean would like. Mostly car and music weeklies, but some he picked out on a whim purely because they looked interesting.

"That was the local sheriff," Dean says, ignoring him. His voice chills Castiel to the bone; quiet, low, dead. "He wanted to ask me some questions."

They both know where this is going, but for a moment he has to allow himself to hope that it was something else.

"About what?"

"About the fire. About the bodies they recovered. He wanted to be able to notify the families."

"Yes, well, I'm sure the Castle family-"

"Shut up Cas."

Dean looks away, biting his lip, tears still dripping from his chin onto the clean white sheets.

"They found two bodies at that warehouse. One teenage boy, one man in his twenties."

"Dean-"

"Where's Sam?

It doesn't happen very often, but now is one of the few times that the angel is lost for words.

"Dammit Cas, where's my brother?" Dean shouts through clenched teeth, pain and fury choking his voice. He is sobbing openly now, and doesn't seem to care who sees him. "You always know what to say. You've always got some smart-ass answer. It's one question! Answer it!"

"Dean, you already know the answer."

"Say it!"

"Sam is... he's dead."

At those four words, Dean slumps back against the bed. It's as if all the pain, and fury, and loss has seeped out of him and he's left with nothing but a numb emptiness. Castiel's heart aches, and he has to fight the urge to step towards the bed, to take Dean's hand or smooth his forehead or touch his face and tell him that he's sorry, that he will never leave him, that they can get through this together.

"He's not coming back, is he?" The way he says it makes it quite clear it's a statement, not a question, that he's already resigned himself to the answer, but Castiel has to answer anyway.

"Not this time."

"I see."

"If it helps, he's at peace. He's with Jessica and your parents."

"No, it doesn't help. Because I'm still here, and I..." he sniffs, runs a hand through his hair. "All my life it's been 'look after Sammy, look after Sammy' and now... what was the point?"

"He saved the world. And countless lives. That has to count for something."

"I know, but-"

"Everybody dies, Dean."

"Not in my experience. Not permanently."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah well, that's so much help now. That's gonna bring him back."

"Nevertheless, it's true."

"Save your breath, Cas. If you spent less time being sorry and more time actually helping, stuff like this wouldn't happen."

The accusation wounds him, but at the same time he knows Dean doesn't really mean it. This is his way of coping; in his heart, he really, truly believes that it's his fault, so he's projecting his guilt and self-loathing onto the nearest person, to have somebody to take it out on. Castiel doesn't mind, not really. Part of him thinks he deserves it, Dean's words are true, after all. If he'd been there, none of this would have happened.

"I mean, where the hell were you?" Dean is on a roll now, venting out his anger and frustration. "I mean, when I was kid, my mum always used to say to me, she said 'angels are watching over you'. Every single night when I went to bed. And I believed her. Then, obviously, I realised it was a big steaming pile of crap. But..."

"What?"

"When you walked through that barn door, when you told me who you were... it was like I could hear her voice, in my head, telling me 'you see?' And every time you'd show up out of nowhere and gank some demon or something, it felt true. Like I had my own guardian angel. And I... I felt like I could sleep better at night, because I knew you'd protect me."

Castiel realises that Dean is baring his heart here. This man, normally so guarded and protective of his feelings, is spilling everything to him. He feels so vulnerable and alone that he no longer cares who can hear him, that he's ignoring the lifetime of training his father drilled into him. _Be a man. Men don't cry. Men don't talk about their feelings._

"You've saved my life more times than I can count, Cas. S- Sam's too. But now... where the fuck where you?"

"Not where you needed me," he whispers, guilt flooding his veins. Because he knows it's true. He was supposed to protect the Winchesters. That was his one job, and he failed. "Dean, I... It's my fault. I don't know how to make it up to you. To redeem myself for you."

Tears threaten to spring to his eyes once more, and he takes a step backwards.

"I'm sorry Dean," he whispers before he vanishes into the air.

In the silence that follows, Dean stares at the space where Cas stood.

"Cas..."

He clenches his fists, furious at himself. He hadn't meant to lose control like that. Sometimes he forgot that Cas had such a low opinion of himself that he genuinely believed everything was his fault. He hadn't meant what he'd said. He'd been angry, and upset.

"I'm sorry, Cas. I didn't mean it. Just... just don't do anything stupid, alright?" he mutters to the empty room, hoping that somewhere Cas is listening.

He is, although he tries to drown it out. It's part of his bond with Dean; a side effect of him branding his hand print on Dean's arm, on his soul. When Dean prays to him, he can hear it, wherever he is. He can hear him now, hear him begging him to come back, worrying about him. Why's he worried? He just found out his brother is dead, the only family he has left, the boy he's been protecting all his life. If anything, Castiel should be there for Dean, worrying over him; but he's not. He's left, like a coward, because he can't face up to the guilt and the shame of not having protected them.

_Cas, I'm sorry._

_Cas, come back._

_Cas, please. I need you here._

_He's dead. Oh god, he's really dead._

_It's not your fault. It's mine._

_It's all my fault._

_Cas, please._

_Cas._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

He bites his lip and tries to drown Dean out with humming. It's such a simple, human action, one that people find as easy as breathing, but is still a source of fascination to him. At first it's tuneless, random notes, anything to try and silence his friend's pleas, but eventually he finds himself settling into a tune. It's a simple melody, light and breezy, but brings with it a pang of sadness. He can't quite place the song, but at the same time he knows it should be familiar to him.

He doesn't understand why Dean's words hurt him so much. The things he said, they were nothing he hasn't thought about himself before, a thousand times. If it had been anyone else saying them to him, he knows he would have nodded, that he would have agreed with them. But for some reason, to hear those words coming from Dean affected him more than he thought they should have.

He realises the humming is echoing around him and for the first time notices where he is. A dark room, faded sigils scrawled in black spray paint on the walls, right up to the wooden rafters of the ceiling. A smudged devils trap painted on the floor, and the faint smell of animals outside.

Even in the dim light he knows where he is instantly. This is the barn where he first came face to face with Dean Winchester. The real, living, breathing Dean Winchester, because of course they'd already met, although Dean didn't remember it. When Castiel had first pulled the Righteous Man out of Hell, he'd spent weeks trying to track him down. He'd slaughtered anything that tried to get in his way, because this was his mission. Save Dean Winchester. And the second he laid eyes on him, he knew that he was just in time. His soul had been in hell for decades, and it showed. It was tainted, shades of black and blue and purple, like a hideous bruise. Ten years of torture, and he was defeated, twisted, corrupted. His soul was still a long way off from the deep, dark, mangled blackness of a demon's, but it was also something beyond human.

Any other angel would have been disgusted, he should have been; a race that prized purity and holiness above everything else, this battered and broken and sinful _thing_ that lay before him should have been abhorrent to him. Yet even as he hung back and watched, as Dean cut into soul after soul, Alastair behind him whispering encouraging, poison words into his ear, something about this man seemed different. His soul was contaminated, warped, but the parts that remained pure and clean shone brighter than any he'd ever seen. They shone like a beacon to him, and the second he laid his hand on him, searing his brand into Dean's shoulder, and Dean turned to look at him, hope filling his dead, dull eyes for the first time in years, he knew. He knew that he would follow this man to the ends of the Earth and beyond, that he would die for this man again and again, that he would do anything and go anywhere for him.

And when he lifted Dean from Hell and pieced his soul together bit by bit, it only enforced what he knew in his heart.

That finally, after so many years of living, he had inexorably, undeniably, found something that he would... not die for. He'd already done that. It came as a side effect of teaming up with the Winchesters. And not something for him to live for. For a start, it's too cliché. And he's lived for so long, the phrase doesn't really hold much meaning. Suddenly, the answer strikes him.

He's finally found something he'd fall for.

In every sense of the word.

It was so simple when he thought about it. It reminds him a little of the television shows Dean watches sometimes when Sam isn't in the motel. He's not as much of an expert on them as Dean is, but he gets the idea. There are two characters, usually doctors, although Dean does vary his viewing habits sometimes, who after many episodes of tension and close calls eventually admit their love for each other. Dean usually snorts at that part, but Castiel can see the grin on his face and he can tell this is what Dean's been waiting for. It's not exactly like that, how could it be? An angel falling in love with the human he'd raised from Hell isn't exactly typical daytime television show material, but the premise is the same. The characters always seem to realise that they've felt that way about each other the whole time, but only understood the feeling recently. And isn't that how Castiel has felt about Dean since the day he walked into this barn? To see him standing there, the angel's most beautiful creation, and to see the light in his eyes where before they had been dead and empty, had filled him with a feeling he couldn't describe at the time. It's only now, after he's spent time on Earth, got used to human thoughts and emotions, that he can truly comprehend it. It's not love, somehow that word doesn't seem strong enough, doesn't seem to capture what he feels.

In his head, he hears Sam's words again.

_I don't know if it's best friends or soul mates or, or profound bonds or whatever, but you're part of his life now. A big one. And that's not gonna change._

He wonders if Sam knew how true his words are. Probably, he thinks. Sam isn't stupid, and he knows what it's like to be in love with somebody. He knows the signs. From what he hears, nobody who saw Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore around each other could deny what existed between them. So yes, Sam probably knew.

But did Dean?

Castiel realised he was being stupid, getting ahead of himself. He had no proof that Dean felt the same way about him. In fact, judging by the way he acted around the angel, he saw him as a close friend, nothing more. The thought twisted in his heart like a knife, and it was almost unbelievable how just a thought could cause physical pain. It was almost hard to believe he hadn't realised the truth about how he felt about Dean earlier. He knew that this wasn't normal, that it wasn't the same as he felt about Sam, and Bobby, but he'd just assumed that that was because of the bond they shared.

But it wasn't like that. It was true he'd felt more strongly towards Dean than to any other human right from the start, but that was only natural. Dean was his mission, his charge; watch over Dean Winchester and protect him from harm. He'd risked his life time and time again to save him, and now he'd do the same for any of his friends, but for a different reason. If somebody attacked Robert Singer, for example, he would protect him, fight for him, because of the sense of duty and loyalty he felt towards the man. He'd proven to the angel that he was there for him, and Castiel felt an undying sense of gratitude and affection towards the man. But if it was Dean that was attacked he would do anything to help him, because the thought of a world without Dean in it made his heart shrink in his chest until it felt as though it would break any second. He'd ignored this feeling before, thinking it was because of his mission to protect the elder Winchester brother, that if Dean came to harm it would mean he had failed, but it wasn't like that. It had been like that originally, but over time it had evolved into something more.

His heart is thudding in his chest, and he forces himself to calm down. As epiphanies went, this one could have been timed better. He has other priorities. He has to be there for Dean. The man has just lost his brother, and he needs a friend. _A friend_, he reminds himself. _A friend, a friend_. Because Dean doesn't feel the same way about him, he's sure of that. He's known it all along, even when he thought this feeling was just loyalty. He's lost count of how many times Dean has asked him to step back, to stop giving him 'that look'. He still recalls the time Dean sat him down in a motel room and had a long talk to him about personal space, about making sure to keep a certain distance from him.

At the time, it had made no sense to Castiel. He had pulled this man from hell, put his body and soul back together one shard at a time. He was more familiar with Dean than he was with his own vessel, so why Dean would ask him to keep his distance just seemed ridiculous. But he obeyed, made sure he was aware of the space between them, because he saw the way Dean tensed up when he was too close, saw the carefully measured, controlled breathing and heard the quiet, terse mutters of 'Cas, we've talked about this. Personal space'.

No, there's no way Dean feels the same way about him. Whenever he's with Dean, he feels safe, relaxed. Happy. It's so different from the way Dean acts around him, it's impossible that the feeling is reciprocated.

And the strange thing is, he realises, he doesn't mind. Well, he does, but he also knows that for him, being with Dean would be enough. Staying by his side. Making him smile and laugh and, just for a second, forget his worries. Because when Dean smiles, it's like the sun comes out from behind a cloud. He wouldn't mind not being with him in _that_ way if he could just see that smile because he could pretend to himself that he was smiling because of him, because he enjoyed being with Castiel too.

Yes, he tells himself, that would be enough. He ignores the nagging voice in his head that tells him otherwise.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

When eventually he forces himself to leave and go back to Dean, the sun is setting and the first blues and purples of night are creeping in to the sky. Dean has his eyes closed, head turned to the side, but as soon as Castiel appears in the room he opens them. They're red, damp; he's been crying. A lot, by the look of it.

"Hey, Cas."

"Hello Dean."

Dean takes a breath.

"Look, I'm sorry. I just-"

"No need to apologise."

"But-"

"Just don't."

The forcefulness of his voice throws Dean for a second.

"Please... don't. It's true, all of it. Everything you said. I wasn't there to protect you, and I could have saved him. But I can't bring him back, and neither can you. And he wouldn't want us to feel guilty about not having stopped this from happening."

Dean nods, slowly.

"Is he... is he happy? I mean..."

He trails off, but Castiel knows what he means.

"Yes. He wanted to say thank you. For everything."

His friend smiles, tears threatening to spill over his eyes again.

"He appreciates everything you did for him. And he will be happy. I give you my word."

"Good," Dean hesitates, obviously unsure whether or not to carry on. "I guess... I mean, it's better this way, right? He's gonna be alright. Nothing's gonna hurt him anymore."

"Yes."

"Good," he repeats, but they both know his heart isn't really in it. He's trying to convince himself that what happened to Sam was a good thing, that he's happy that his little brother was able to escape the life he never wanted to be a part of, when the truth is that he's going to miss him. A lot. Castiel bites his lip, and the next words tumble out of his mouth in a rush.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Huh?"

"I've lost brothers. Too many times. I know how much it hurts. And if there's anything I can do to make it better, even a little..."

"Cas, I'm fine."

He wants to comment on the obvious lie, but he decides to leave it. Dean is well aware that Castiel knows he's lying, but he evidently doesn't want to talk about it.

"Of course you are."

"Really, I am."

For a moment Dean looks as if he's about to say anything, but then it's as if he thinks better about it and Castiel sees a wall go up behind his eyes, hiding the vulnerable, emotional side of him. His body language changes, making him look happier, confident. He knows it's an act, that Dean is still hurting, but he knows it will take time for him to come to terms with what's happened, so for now he plays along with the charade, relaxing but still keeping a wary eye on his friend.

Dean's eyes alight on the paper bag Castiel left earlier. It hasn't been touched; he probably hadn't even noticed when Castiel bought them in. He'd had other things on his mind.

"Hey, what's that?"

"Magazines. I thought you would want something to read."

Dean grins.

"Great. Pass them here."

He leafs through the bag, picks one out and flicks through it. Obviously seeing something that piques his interest, he settles down and starts reading. The angel just sits there, watching him. It's as if nothing had happened, he thinks. He knows what's going on. Dean is trying to put his brother out of his mind, doesn't want to think about it, so he's distracting himself, pretending everything's the same as usual. It's such a typical Dean response, he doesn't know why he expected anything different. Later will come the breakdown, the drinking, the whispered confession that he can't cope, that he can't deal with it. For now, Dean is trying to carry on as normal. Castiel wonders how long that will last. He's seen this before; when he raised Dean from hell, the hunter threw himself back into his old life, feigning amnesia of what happened down there.

"You wanna take one, or are you just gonna sit there watching me? 'Cause no offence, Cas, but that's kinda creepy."

Dean offers the bag, and Castiel takes out a magazine at random. He glances down; something about rock music, the names of bands vaguely familiar from time spent around Dean plastered across the cover. He leafs through the pages, occasionally stopping to skim an article that catches his eye, and he's almost halfway through before he realises that Dean is staring at him.

"What?"

"You're humming."

It takes him by surprise for a second. He hadn't realised he was doing it. Sometimes he finds himself drumming his fingers, or tapping his foot, or shifting his weight from one leg to the other when there's no need to. They're simple, human gestures, drilled into his vessel's subconscious through years of repetition. He thinks back a few seconds and yes, he was humming, the same tune as before.

"I'm sorry. Would you like me to stop?"

"No, no. It's just... that song. My, uh, my mom used to sing it to me. When I was little. It's 'Hey Jude', isn't it?"

Castiel thinks for a moment, and yes, that's what it is.

"Yes, I suppose it is," he says, and then sees the look in Dean's eyes. "You really miss her, don't you?"

"Yeah. I guess mostly I just miss what it was like, before all this."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... before she died, everything was so, so normal. I mean hell, Dad used to smile. Like, properly smile. We were just a normal family, and there was nothing out there in the shadows wanting to rip us apart and eat us. And sometimes I wonder what it would be like if she'd just stayed in bed that night."

Castiel stays silent, letting Dean just talk at him.

"You probably don't know this... it was before we met you. I got attacked by a djinn we were hunting. It messed with my head, convinced me I was living in some fantasy world when really it was draining me dry in a warehouse with the rest of the victims. For me, it was like I just woke up one day and I was living in some alternate reality kinda thing. And in it, everything was like it would've been if mom hadn't walked into that nursery. If we'd never started hunting. I mean, she was alive, and Jess was alive, and Sam-" his voice cracks, but he continues. "Sam was gonna marry her. Dad was still dead, but it'd been a stroke, not some demon deal. We were a normal family." He swallows. "And then I woke up, and it was all a dream. We killed the thing, saved this girl, headed back to the motel and had a drink. I don't think Sam even remembered the case that much, but for some reason I couldn't just forget it. Like, sometimes I'll find myself thinking, what if it was like that? What if we hadn't been raised like this?"

"Do you miss it? That world? Even if it wasn't real?"

"Yeah, I guess. I know it wasn't real, and there's no way I could have that life now, but still... sometimes..." He trails off, looks up at the angel, grimaces awkwardly. "Man, I'm sorry. They've got me dosed up to the eyeballs on painkillers and I'm a little out of it. I don't even know where that came from."

"But it's true."

He doesn't say it like a question. It's a statement of fact. Dean nods.

"Yeah. I-" he stops, breathes deeply. "I know that if we...if I didn't do this, then there'd be a lot of people who wouldn't be alive today, and I know I do a lot of good, but sometimes you've gotta remember there's other hunters out there. If I didn't do this, someone else would."

Castiel sighs, his conscience torn. A brief internal battle ensues, and eventually he whispers,

"Is that what you want? If you could have that life," he looks up to meet Dean's eyes. "Would you take it?"

Dean thinks for a moment.

"Why are you asking?"

"No reason," Castiel says, and the lie is painful. He knows that if Dean knew the truth, knew what he was thinking of doing, he would never say yes. But he needs to know what Dean really thinks.

"We're talking hypothetically, right?"

"Yes."

"Then... yeah, I guess I would."

"Even if it meant you couldn't hunt anymore? Couldn't save anyone?"

"If there was someone else doing it, then I don't see why not."

"I see."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

Dean grimaces.

"Cas, you can't lie. What are you acting all weird for?"

"I'm not acting 'all weird'."

He tries to smile comfortingly.

"Okay, Cas, that's just creepy."

His face falls.

"You're definitely acting weird. Asking all these questions-" Dean's eyes widen in realisation. "Hey, you're not thinking of doing anything, are you? Anything stupid?"

"Like what?" he asks innocently.

"Like... giving me that life. I don't know if you're thinking of screwing with my head, or changing reality, or whatever. Don't."

"I'm not."

"Cas, I know you. Better than anyone. And I know that face. That's the face that says 'I screwed up, and I'm trying to make it better.' And no offense, but when you try and make things better they usually end up worse."

The final comment stings him, but he knows it's true.

"What are you thinking of doing? And don't say nothing. I hope you respect me more than that, enough to tell me the truth."

Castiel swallows the lump rising in his throat.

"I could... if you wanted me to..."

"What?"

"I could alter your memories. Make this less painful. Give you the life you've always wanted."

"What, and you were just gonna do this? Without asking me first?"

"I knew you'd say no."

"Damn right I would! You've got no right to do that to me?"

"That's exactly what Bobby said." The second the words leave his mouth, he can tell by the way Dean tenses up that it was the wrong thing to say.

"Wait, you mean you've been _discussing_ this? Behind my back? When?"

"When it first happened?"

"And what did you say?"

"I told him I was considering doing it. To ease the pain. And mostly... because I was scared to tell you. He didn't take it well."

"Yeah, I can imagine he didn't. Look, Cas, I don't need your help getting over this. People lose loved ones all the time, and they don't all have an angel on their shoulder to get them through."

"But you do."

Dean doesn't know what to say.

"Besides, you said you wanted this. You said you'd want that life, but now I'm actually offering it to you, you won't take it?"

"It's not like that-"

"Then what is it like?"

"Look, Cas... it's hard to explain."

"Then try."

"Jeez, okay. Um... just 'cause you fantasise about something, just because you convince yourself you want it, doesn't mean you'd actually take it. I mean, I want that life, I do. But at the same time, hunting's a part of me. Has been since I was four years old and Dad told me that the monster under my bed was real and it was coming to get me. And I can't picture myself in that other life at all."

"I don't understand."

"I kinda suck at this. That's the life I want. But maybe I'm just not supposed to have it. No matter how much I want it. Like, it's not my destiny or whatever."

"I thought you didn't believe in destiny."

"Oh, I believe in destiny alright. And sometimes I believe in shoving it where the sun don't shine and choosing my own future, but sometimes I think maybe it's destiny for a reason, maybe whoever decided it got it right."

"So what you're saying is you want that life, and you fantasise about having it, but at the same time you feel like it's never going to be yours... because you're just not meant to have it?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Look, I'm not expecting you to understand-"

"Oh, don't worry. I understand perfectly."

_Better than you know_, he thinks, looking at Dean. Something he wants, but at the same time he feels he was never meant to have it, because it's just not part of who he was? He knows angels are supposed to love humans, it's the whole reason Lucifer fell, what started all of this, but in a different way to how he's feeling now. He's supposed to love them as God's most perfect creations, and he does, but one in particular.

When he compares his situation to Dean's, it occurs to him that Dean may not have been entirely truthful. The way his friend spoke, it sounded like the belief that he wasn't meant to have that life was the strongest, that the desire for different circumstances was only fleeting, but to Castiel it seems it should be the other way around.

The knowledge of how he feels for Dean is rooted deep in his heart, in his mind. It may have only recently occurred to him the implications of this feeling, but now he knows he is aware of how much it is a part of him. The yearning to be close to Dean, the getting too close even when Dean tells him to back off, the need to see Dean safe and happy and well before he can worry about himself, all of it is as much a part of his life as breathing. Maybe more; he only breathes because his vessel needs the oxygen, but this emotion is not the body's he is wearing, it's his, all his. The part of his brain that tells him that it is wrong, that it was never meant to be like this, is by far the less dominant. It's something his conscious mind has put there to think of excuses. He knows he can't have this and so he's trying to convince himself that he doesn't want it anyway, like a spoiled child denied a toy or sweets.

"Cas?"

Dean looks at him, eyes full of concern for his silent friend. Castiel looks down, mind returning to earth, to the present, and for a while they look at each other, green meeting blue, and in the hunter's eyes Castiel can see that he was right, that it's exactly the same, and he knows that he was going to do this all along. Mentioning it to Dean and Bobby, so they could tell him it was wrong and that he couldn't do it, was his way of convincing himself he didn't want to do this, when all along he knows he does. He always did. Because then, maybe his friend would smile, and those green eyes would be free from burden and pain, and he could be happy too. Even if he wasn't the reason for that happiness.

"Cas?" Slightly louder this time, more insistent. Castiel ignores him, mind focusing on the task at hand. For the first time, he regrets cutting himself off from Heaven. This would be so easy if he hadn't. Ever since he rebelled, he can feel his grace sapping, weakening, and he knows it won't last forever. This will take a lot, but he's fairly confident he can manage it, and retain enough of his power to keep himself from falling altogether. It will be close, though.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"What?"

"I mean it. For everything."

He reaches out a hand to touch Dean's forehead. He closes his eyes, concentrating, and the image that is seared into his eyelids, the last thing he sees before he shuts them, is Dean's frightened eyes as his mind clicks into place and he realises what Castiel is doing.

"No. No, no, no, no, no. Cas, I'm begging you. Don't do this. Please-"

Dean's cries fade into silence, and Castiel opens his eyes to see his friend asleep, his head tilted back on the pillow. And it may be his eyes playing tricks on him, but he could swear Dean looks a little more relaxed, and the frown lines on his forehead not as deep.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, knowing Dean can't hear him. "When you wake up, you won't remember me. Or Sam. You can have that normal life. Maybe then you'll be happy."

He takes one last look at his sleeping friend before turning and leaving the room. He has a lot of work to do; adjusting memories, changing documents, deleting records. He wants to leave no trace for Dean to follow; it wouldn't trigger a return of his memories, but it would confuse him, and lead to questions that could uncover the truth. No, he wants to leave nothing behind that could tell Dean that he ever had a brother. Or that he ever met a certain blue-eyed angel in a trenchcoat.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The days blur into weeks, which blur into months. They're all the same; dull, monotonous. He hunts now; driving from state to state, searching local newspapers and websites for cases. He took the Impala. He hadn't wanted to, knew how much the car meant to Dean, but at the same time that was exactly the reason why he couldn't just leave it. The brothers' history was a part of her, and the thought of Dean driving it without his memories, somebody else sitting in the shotgun seat where Sam always used to sit... besides, he wanted to keep something, as a souvenir, a reminder of his time with the Winchester brothers, and when he was behind the wheel it felt, in some strange way, like he'd never really left them at all.

It felt like home.

It had taken him a few days to erase his tracks, make sure there was nothing left that linked to Dean's old life, nothing that would clash with his false memories. He'd hung around until he was certain that there was nothing that could trigger a return of his memories, and then got out of town as quickly as possible. If he hung around, he could change his mind, want to stay. He'd had to leave before he could change his mind about what he'd done.

He wipes the blood from his hands and opens the trunk of the Impala. Another case over with; time to get away, move on. He doesn't believe in sticking around. Roll into town, kill the monster, leave with as little fuss as possible. Castiel prefers not to make much of an impression.

He makes sure the shotgun is unloaded, takes out the knife from the sheath hidden in his coat. He hates having to use these weapons, would much rather prefer to use his angelic powers and be done with it, but needs to save what is left of his grace and in some strange way, it makes him sad to think about getting rid of the guns and knives in the false bottom of the trunk. These weapons have been passed down through the Winchester family from father to sons, and it would be wrong to leave them unused.

Castiel steps into the car, slamming the door behind him, sinking back into the worn leather seat and drumming his hands on the wheel. He turns to look at the newspaper in the passenger seat, open to the news section where one article is circled hurriedly in red pen. Something he'd picked out this morning as a potential new case when he finished this one. A small article, just a filler, about mysterious deaths in nearby Kansas. It didn't look like anything difficult, probably a lone vampire, maybe a nest, nothing he couldn't handle. Besides, it wasn't too far away and he had no other leads.

He nudged the Impala into gear, pulled her out of the parking space, and settled down for a few hours' steady driving. At first it had been difficult, but he'd watched Dean do it so many times, memorised the way his hands moved and his body shifted in response to the car's motion, that he just copied the movements and figured the rest out for himself. It was easy once he got the hang of it.

It was surprising, when he thought about it, how quickly he'd settled into this lifestyle. It was definitely a change- he'd found himself taking more risks, throwing himself into fights recklessly. He had nobody left to protect, after all, and no reason for him to keep himself safe. There was no one who needed him, no one who would call for him at all hours of the day asking for help. He'd thought about checking in on Dean from time to time, checking that he was safe, alive, but eventually decided against it. It was better to move on from that. Focus on the present.

The next few hours pass in a blurry haze of highways and tarmac. He doesn't think about anything, doesn't try to occupy himself with his thoughts. He just drives. It's a state of mind he's in increasingly often lately; whether he's interviewing distraught families, driving from case to case, even when he's hunting. His mind feels numb, empty. If he stops to think, to dwell on the past, he's scared he won't be able to cope, that he'll break down. He's more like a machine now than a living, breathing being.

With a sort of detached, disinterested realisation it strikes him that this is what he used to be like. Before he came to Earth, before he met the Winchester brothers, he'd never felt emotions before. Millennia of mindless obedience, of following orders without question, of moving through life and living through every day not feeling worry or guilt or shame or sadness. He'd lived like that for countless years, for much longer than any living being today could conceive of. So why now is it so unbearable? Why does he want to scream at the heavens or just park the car and cry until his tears run dry?

He pushes these thoughts away to a distant part of his mind and forces himself to keep on driving.

Eventually he pulls up outside a motel. The sun is setting and, although he doesn't strictly need sleep, it's something to occupy his time with and lately he has to be careful about keeping his strength up. As he goes to get out of the car, a door slams somewhere in the distance and he turns towards the sound, his fingers fumble and he drops the ignition key. It drops under the drivers' seat with a clatter. He sighs and reaches his arm under the seat to try and retrieve the key, but stops when his fingers meet what feels like paper. Curious, he pulls it out, stepping under a light to see better.

It's a photograph, only about six months old but already ripped and creased. It must have dropped under the seat at some point and been lost or forgotten about. He smooths it out, carefully handling it as if it were something precious.

He dimly remembers the photo being taken. The three of them had spent a few days at the salvage yard in Sioux Falls with Bobby in between hunts. Dean had grown restless, unused to staying idle in one place for so long, and so had taken it upon himself to clear out the old man's basement, a task he'd soon realised was greater than he'd thought, and he'd given up before the weekend was out. In one of the boxes of junk, however, he'd found an old camera. He'd turned it over in his hands for a few moments, wiping off the dust and rubbing at a few marks on the lens, before looking up at the angel and grinning.

"Hey, Cas, say cheese."

"Why would I-"

He'd fired off a photo before Castiel could finish his sentence.

"What was that for?"

"I dunno," Dean had shrugged. "Just checking it worked."

Castiel had said nothing more about it, assuming Dean had just thrown the photograph away. But now, holding it in his hands, he saw that it looked as if it had been kept in a bag or pocket, folded up carefully.

He doesn't understand why Dean kept the photo. It didn't hold any emotional value, it wasn't anything sentimental. It was just an image captured when Castiel wasn't expecting it, and his surprise and confusion is evident in the photo. He's frowning slightly, his lips parted to finish his sentence. It's nothing special, it's just... him.

He folds the photo again along the creases, tucks it into his pocket and locks the Impala, setting off to book a room for a few nights.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The next day, the car won't start.

He clucks impatiently under his breath. There was another death last night, and he wants to get this case over with. He was planning on interviewing some of the families of the victims today, examining the bodies in the morgue.

When he turns the key in the ignition again, the car starts, coughs and splutters a few times, and falls silent. Castiel climbs out, opens the hood, and spends a good few minutes staring at the engine before eventually he has to admit to himself he has no idea what he's looking at. It all looks the same to him; chunks of metal and plastic. He wouldn't know where to start, how to figure out what's wrong with it, never mind fix it.

"Car trouble?"

He jumps, and almost bangs his head on the hood. When he recovers, he turns around to see a young woman leaning against a door. She's probably in her late twenties or early thirties, dressed casually in faded jeans and a baggy jumper, mousy brown hair scraped off her hair in a ponytail. He recognises her as the motel owner's daughter; they'd met briefly last night when he'd paid for the room, although he'd still been caught up in his own thoughts about the photograph.

"Um... yes," he admits sheepishly.

"There's a good mechanic just downtown, if you want me to call them."

He pauses for a second, not wanting to leave the Impala in anybody else's hands while also knowing that it's the only way he can get the car running again.

"Okay," he eventually decides. She smiles at him, and disappears inside. He watches her leave, trying to appear casual, then as soon as she is out of sight he springs into action. From the trunk he recovers a large duffel bag and starts filling it with weapons, throwing them in hastily. If some mechanic or repairman found the arsenal the car concealed... he didn't want to think about what would happen.

He has just enough time to hurriedly zip the bag up and throw it into his room when the woman comes out again.

"They said they'd be about a half hour."

"Thank you."

"You want me to wait out here with you?"

He's not sure what to say. He doesn't want to seem rude, knows how easily offended people get when you don't want to be around them, but at the same time he knows that she will talk to him, want to know about him, and he'd rather be alone. It seems he doesn't have much of a choice though, as she comes and stands beside him, leaning against the back of the Impala.

"So, what you doing in town?"

"I'm a... I work for the FBI. I'm investigating some of the deaths that have happened recently."

Castiel decided that's the best lie to tell for now. Pretending to be a government agent means he has an excuse for refusing to tell her some more personal details.

"Really? I thought they were animal attacks. Why would they send an agent for something like that?"

"We're just investigating every possibility."

It's an excuse he's heard Dean use a thousand times when his story is questioned, when his pretense contradicts the official statement.

"Huh. You know, I thought you'd be something like that."

"Like what?"

"An agent. My husband, he's-" she corrects herself. "He was. A soldier. You've got that same look about you."

"What look?"

"Like you've seen things. Like you've lost people."

She must notice the way he involuntarily stiffens.

"You have?"

"Yes." He could go on, elaborate, but it would just confuse her and he didn't really want to talk about it.

"Oh god, I'm sorry. Recently?"

"A few months."

"I'm so sorry. I didn't think... God, I'm such an idiot."

"It's okay." He steadies himself. "Two friends of mine. Close friends. We were like family, practically."

"Man, I-"

"It's okay," he smiles. "Really. I... I'm coping. You said your husband..."

She nods.

"Yeah. A couple of years ago now."

"He was a soldier?"

She hums in agreement.

"Oh, it wasn't... car crash," she blurts out. "It's stupid, isn't it? He'd come home from service, he'd survived all that, and something stupid like a car crash. I guess the world has got a sense of humour after all."

"I suppose."

She turns to him.

"Kate. Is my name," she adds at his look of confusion.

"Oh. Castiel," he replies, taking the hand she offers and shaking it.

"That's a weird name."

"I suppose. I've never really thought about it."

"What is it, Russian?"

"Something like that."

They talk for a while, standing outside in the sun, leaning against the side of the car. In some kind of unspoken mutual agreement, neither of them bring up the people they've lost again. Instead they talk about the news, about the weather, about anything and everything.

Eventually the repairman pulls up in his battered, blue truck. He's in his fifties, slightly overweight, balding, and the callouses on his fingers and smears of oil on his arms and under his fingertips suggest he's been doing this work for a while. He whistles in appreciation when he sees the car, but his look of admiration soon turns to one of faint horror when he's had time to examine the engine.

"What have you done to this?"

Castiel shrugs.

"Nothing that I know of."

"This is gonna be expensive."

"I assure you, money is no problem."

"If you're sure. I'm gonna need to take this in."

Castiel tenses, but he nods. It's ridiculous; the Impala's just a piece of metal, a machine, but he doesn't like the thought of being parted from her. She's his last real link to the Winchesters, to Dean, and the idea of somebody else fixing her, of poking around in her insides, makes him uncomfortable. But, he reminds himself, it's not like he could do anything to fix her, so he helps the mechanic hook her up to the back of the truck and watches with a hint of sadness as he drives off.

"What are you gonna do?"

"Huh?" He realises Kate is talking to him.

"I can drop you off in town if you've got... FBI stuff to do."

"It would be much appreciated, thank you."

The drive into town takes only ten minutes, but it feels like a lifetime. Kate talks incessantly, and Castiel nods and occasionally hums in agreement when he feels it's required, but he's not really listening. His mind is a million miles away, and for the first time in months he finds himself wondering what Dean is doing now. It was something he'd promised himself that he wouldn't think about, but what with losing the Impala and being in Kansas, where the hunter was raised, it was inevitable that his thoughts would eventually drift back to Dean, and for the first time he questions whether what he did was really a good idea.

_Dean wanted this,_ he reminds himself. _He wanted a normal life._ He is probably working at a bar or something, has a girlfriend, is making a life for himself somewhere nice. He's happy, he's safe, and that's what's important.

It takes him a second to realise the car has stopped.

"I'm gonna have to head back to the motel. It's just me working this weekend. Do you want to ring me when you need picking up?"

She scribbles a phone number on a piece of paper, waves goodbye, and drives away.

Castiel shakes any thoughts of Dean from his head. Now is not the time to reminisce. He is on a case, and he needs to be professional about it. He checks the addresses he wrote down last night, and decides to start at the city morgue. It sounds like vampires, but he needs to be sure.

He checks his pocket for the fake FBI badge Dean gave him, straightens his tie, and sets off.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

After a few days, he decides to check on the car.

There's no particular reason; things have been quiet lately, as if the monsters have sensed somebody on their trail and retreated underground for a while. He's spent the last two days following rumours, wild goose chases, until eventually he has to admit to himself that he has no idea what to do next except wait, hoping eventually the creatures' desire to feed will overcome their cautiousness.

Kate has ferried him around since the first day, never asking questions, and he is grateful but he knows it can't last much longer. Eventually she'll get curious, wonder why he's still in town, why he hasn't finished his business already and moved on. At least if he gets the car back he can find somewhere else to stay while he waits to wrap this case up.

He has no idea how long the car should take to fix. He knows Dean would spend days, weeks even, in the sweltering heat, lying down in the dry dust and fiddling with the undercarriage or hammering out dents and knocks in her body, but she's been through a lot worse than engine failure. Even if the mechanic isn't finished yet, at least he'll know how long it will take, sort out his affairs accordingly. Truth be told, he hates not knowing. He likes feeling in control of his own life, knowing exactly what will happen next, or at least having some rough idea. Being trapped here, dependent on someone else to drive him around, makes him feel suffocated, claustrophobic. Of course, he's still an angel, could still decide to disappear and reappear instantly on the other side of the country, but he took on the car and the responsibility that came with it.

He feels a little out of place at the garage in his suit and heavy coat. Around him the smell of diesel and chemicals permeates the air, and cars in various states of disrepair lie around, waiting to be worked on. He takes a few hesitant steps forward. There's nobody in sight; everyone is probably on their lunch break, he thinks, because it's typical that he would arrive at the one time that the place is deserted.

His eyes alight on the Impala, sat outside in the sun. Almost in a trance, he crosses the workroom, footsteps making ripples in the puddles of oil that glisten all the colours of the rainbow in the dim fluorescent lights. He steps outside, runs his fingers along her roof. The metal is warm to the touch, from the bright noon sun. Her bonnet is propped up, parts of the engine scattered around her in what appears to be a random order, but no doubt makes perfect sense to somebody, on a dirty piece of cloth laid out on the dusty ground. She's been worked on, recently. The engine still looks like a confusing mess of various parts, a mystery to him, but it's clear that whoever has been fixing her knows what he's doing.

He smiles softly to himself as he tilts his head downwards, peering through the windows. A sense of nostalgia fills him as he remembers.

Once upon a time, this car was driven all across America, loud rock music blaring out of the speakers. There was a man who used to sit in the drivers' seat, head tilted back as he belted out the same songs over and over, fingers drumming out a rhythm on the steering wheel. After his life changed, after the incident happened on that night so many years ago, this car became his new home; his island, his refuge. He lived here; spent many nights asleep against the leather seats. When he was younger he played on the floor, between the seats, and his father would constantly complain about the bits and pieces of toys that showed up weeks, months after he lost them.

Once upon a time, this man had a brother. He'd roll his eyes when the music came on, tut and shake his head when his brother turned the volume up high, but he'd always sing or hum along under his breath. Maybe the car never meant as much to him, but that doesn't mean he didn't wince when she suffered a particularly nasty injury, that he never came out to try and help his brother work on her, even if that only meant holding a wrench out, or fetching drinks, or listening as he was talked at incessantly.

Once upon a time he rode in this car with those two men. Sometimes in the back, where he could stare out of the window and watch the world rushing by in smudges of greens and browns and yellows, sometimes in the front passenger seat. That was his favourite; he could sit there with Dean, having long conversations about anything and everything. Dean would turn to look at him and flash him a smile that told him he was included, he was cared for, that he was part of the family now_._

But that was then, and this is now, and the story's over.

The sound of footsteps in the workshop behind him reminds him that he only came here to check how long it would be until he can drive the Impala again. His fingers stop in their tracks where they have been absentmindedly trailing winding, complicated paths along the roof of the car, and almost sheepishly he withdraws his hand and steps back.

He has to admit he can see the appeal of a vehicle like her. Even for somebody who knows nothing about cars, he can appreciate the sleek curves, the way she shines in the sunlight. He's sure that, to anyone who knows anything about cars, there are plenty of reasons why this 1967 model Chevrolet Impala often turns heads in the street, but even to him she's beautiful. It's possible, likely even, that he's biased; the Winchesters' emotional attachment to this piece of metal and chrome has rubbed off a little on him, but the feeling is still there.

"She's a beauty, isn't she? She yours, then?"

He hadn't noticed the footsteps coming closer to him. There's someone behind him; out of the corner of his eye he can see a dark blue jumpsuit, stained with oil and grease, and knows this is probably the person who's been working on the car for the past few days. He wants to turn his head, reply to the question, but it's as if his whole body has frozen because _that voice_.

"I've always wanted one of these. Not often you see 'em around these days. People don't appreciate classic cars anymore. Damn shame, I always thought."

The man comes closer, crossing the distance between them in a few easy strides.

"Hey, man, you alright?"

It takes what feels like an eternity, but finally Castiel summons up the power to turn around, and even manages a feeble attempt at a casual, laid-back smile.

"Yes, it's mine," he says hoarsely, surprised he is even able to speak in anything resembling a normal voice.

"Well, you've got good taste, I'll say that."

He wipes his hand on a rag that he shoves back into his pocket, and extends a hand. When Castiel makes no move to shake it, he draws it back, but steps closer, wide eyes full of concern.

"Hey, you sure you're alright?"

Castiel manages a weak nod.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

The part of his brain that is still functioning normally has to smother the urge to point out that, if he had seen a ghost, he wouldn't be standing around looking shocked. He'd be reaching for salt, anything made of iron, _and really, you of all people ought to know that_.

Instead, however, he stands immobile, words failing him, because this is a sight he thought he'd seen for the last time all those months ago.

He never thought that he would ever look into the eyes of Dean Winchester again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey guys! I just wanted to say a massive thank you to everyone who's read this, and stuck with it. I didn't think anybody would read it, and it's turned into a bit of a beast, so thank you so much for reading and leaving reviews :D**

**Chapter 11**

He forces himself to calm down, to breathe. Just by looking at Dean it's clear that his memories haven't returned; there's no glimmer of recognition in his eyes, nothing in his expression to suggest that Castiel is anything more than a stranger to him. This changes nothing. The important thing is that Castiel doesn't give anything away, give any sign that he and Dean have ever met before.

"I... I'm fine. Must be the heat," he shrugs, attempting to look casual. Dean's raised eyebrows tell him that he's not exactly successful. He never really got the hang of lying; he could pretend to be a federal agent, or sheriff, or whatever the fake badge said, to people he'd never met before, but in front of anyone he was close to he lost his nerve. Dean looks at him for a few moments, then seems to decide it's not important.

"Yeah, it'll get to you. The name's Dean."

"Hello, Dean. I'm Castiel," he replies, offering his hand. The other man grasps it, shakes it firmly, and he is seized with a sudden urge to grab it tight and never let go.

"Hi, Castiel," Dean smiles, and his full name sounds strange coming out of his mouth. The first time Dean called him Cas, he was a little taken aback. That was a name that only his closest brothers and sisters called him; and even then only sometimes. Hearing the nickname from this human he barely knew was disconcerting, but he has grown used to it.

"Please, call me Cas."

"Sure."

Dean stretches lazily, walks over to the car, starts picking up parts and turning them over, inspecting them, with careful hands and expert eyes.

"So, you here for any particular reason or have you just come to admire the scenery?"

He grins wickedly at Castiel, and the angel feels his cheeks redden. It's true, he was staring, but he couldn't help it. Dean looks so different from the last time they spoke. It's as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He stands taller, more confident. He smiles more. His body language is relaxed. It is hard to believe he is the same man who was lying in that hospital bed, pretending that everything was alright when Castiel knew he would break down the second he was alone.

"I just came to ask about the car."

Dean sucks in a breath.

"Well, she'll be a few days yet. I gotta wait for some new parts to arrive. Someone-" he looks pointedly at Castiel "-hasn't been looking after her properly."

For some reason, the accusation irritates him. He could have left the car behind, sent her off to scrap, sold her. He kept her for Dean, the old Dean, because he knew that that was what he would have wanted. The implication that he hasn't cared for it properly stings him, and he finds himself becoming defensive.

"It's not mine, really. It was given to me by," he pauses, trying to decide the best word to use, but only for a fraction of a second, not enough to seem odd. "An old friend. I've been doing the best I can, but I don't really know a lot about cars."

"You must have been close."

The statement surprises him.

"What?"

"Guy left you a freakin' car. He must have trusted you."

"That's not exactly how it happened."

"You steal it or something?"

"No!" He shouts, and trails off when he sees Dean's expression of amusement. "No. It's... it's complicated. I don't want to-"

"Hey, I get it. You've only just met me. I'm not expecting you to spill your secrets. I'm just here to get the car fixed."

"It's alright," he sighs. "I'm sorry, I got a little..." he trails off, unsure how to finish.

"Touchy subject?"

"You could say that."

"Okay."

Dean shrugs self-consciously, evidently uncomfortable with this conversation. Castiel has to remind himself that, to Dean, they are complete strangers. It's difficult; he's known Dean for so long, was so close to him, it's hard to pretend they've never met before.

"So, you new in town?"

"Sorry?"

Dean tilts his head to indicate the Impala.

"It's a small town. I think I'd remember seeing her around. I mean, I haven't lived here for long, but I'd know if I'd seen a car like that round here."

It would be funny, if he were in any mood to laugh. Even with a whole new set of memories, a whole new life, some things never change.

"Oh. Yes, I've only been here for a few days. I'm staying at the Pine Tree motel."

"Yeah, I know the place. Business trip?"

"Something like that. I work for the FBI, I'm here on an investigation."

Dean raises his eyebrows in a look of surprise and... is that admiration?

"You're a Fed? Wow. What's the FBI doing here?"

It's the same question he's been hearing for the past few days. Evidently nothing much happens in this town. He repeats the same line he's been reciting since he arrived.

"I'm investigating the deaths that have been reported around here recently."

Dean frowns.

"I thought the police said they were animal attacks."

Again, it's the same conversation he's had with every official, every witness. Hearing it coming out of Dean's mouth, though, makes his heart sink. Dean is supposed to be the one in the suit, asking questions, lying smoothly and confidently to get the information he wanted. He is- was- the professional. That's how it's always been, that's how it's meant to be. The next words are bitter in his mouth.

"We just want to investigate every possibility."

It's like a play, he muses. He knows his lines, gets into character. The details change with each recital, but it's always the same story. He plays his role, the witnesses and grieving family play theirs. In the end he kills the monster and drives off into the sunset, a happy ending, and the curtain falls again. Only this time the parts are wrong. Dean is reading the wrong lines, and it's unnerving. He has to play along, though. The show must go on.

"Ah. Well, I can't help you there. Only lived here a few months."

He looks a little sheepish, like he's embarrassed he can't be of any help.

"That's okay. I'm nearly done anyway. Once the car's fixed I'll be leaving."

He's only a few days away from catching up with the vampire nest. Once he finds them it will be a simple enough job to put them down, and then he can be out of there and far away from Kansas. Already he wants to get out, get away. Dean doesn't remember him, but he knows Dean, and if he stays around he might find himself regretting what he's done.

There's a reason he never tried to find out what had happened to the hunter; he knows he is weak, he is emotional. Ever since he came to Earth, since he met the Winchesters and started to develop emotions, he's known that. His brothers and sisters pointed it out enough times. Angels aren't used to having feelings. They're not designed for it, and when they do, it overpowers them. God designed them to be mindless, obedient soldiers. Emotions corrupt; they affect your brain, cause you to make bad decisions, do things you regret. He tries to think calmly, like the soldier he used to be.

It's better this way. Dean was in pain. Castiel took that pain away from him. Nothing else matters.

Besides, Dean looks happy here. He looks vibrant, healthier, more carefree than Castiel has seen him in a long time. Maybe ever. For once in his life, he doesn't look as if the whole world is weighing on his shoulders.

Dean is tinkering with the car now, slotting parts into the engine, taking parts out, and Castiel remembers that he is at work.

"Would you like me to leave?"

Dean looks surprised for a second, like the thought hadn't even crossed his mind.

"You in a rush?"

"No, you look busy."

He shrugs.

"I'm the only one on today, and I can't really do that much without the parts I need. If you got no place you gotta be," he thinks for a moment. "Maybe I could show you round the engine? At least you'll know where everything is."

Castiel raises his eyebrows and Dean flushes red.

"I just think it's a shame a car like this is owned by someone who has no idea how she works. I mean," his tone takes on a dreamy, faraway tone. "This is an Impala. '67 model, man! She deserves to be driven by someone who appreciates her."

Castiel smiles.

"Okay. Why not?"

Dean's face splits into a grin.

The next few hours pass surprisingly quickly. Dean is a good teacher; he's patient, waits until he's sure Castiel knows what he's talking about before moving on. For a while the angel just watches him work, perched on car bonnets with his shirt sleeves rolled up and coat discarded on the floor. They talk as Dean lies under various cars and trucks and Castiel hands him tools, most of which he's never seen before in his life and has no idea what they're used for. Dean seems to know his stuff, though. It's no surprise he found himself working someplace like this. He'd often said that if he hadn't been raised into the life he had, he would've gone into work as a mechanic or repairman.

By the time Dean looks at his watch and announces that he'd better be heading home, the sun is beginning to go down. Castiel is surprised at how long they've talked. It's just like old times. Except, he has to remind himself, it's not. This isn't Dean, not the Dean he knows. By what he's gathered from their conversation, the fake memories he gave Dean are still in place. His mother died in a car accident when he was younger; he was raised by his father, who passed away from a heart attack a few years ago. He's an only child. His father was a car mechanic, and he grew up knowing his way around engines. When John died, Dean decided to go into the family business. He moved around the country a lot, but eventually settled down here, only a few hours' drive away from Lawrence, where he was born and raised. And he doesn't know anything about ghosts, demons, angels, vampires, werewolves, or any other supernatural creatures. Castiel makes sure of it when they're discussing the case.

"So, what else could it be? If it's not animal attacks?"

"I don't know. The Bureau is pretty sure that it was just a bear, or something like that. Like I said, we have to investigate every possibility."

Dean seems comfortable leaving it at that, but Castiel can't resist pressing him. He knows it's a bad idea, but he needs to know.

"I interviewed one man, he was convinced it was vampires. Claims they're everywhere around here, pretending to be normal people."

He tries to sound light-hearted, rolling his eyes as if to say 'what a nutjob', but watches Dean intently. The other man doesn't bat an eyelid.

"Man, some people are crazy. The stuff they'll believe."

"You don't believe in vampires?"

Dean looks at him as if he's gone mad.

"They're not real. It's a bunch of nonsense."

"Oh. Yes, of course. Of course it is," the sensible part of his brain shouts at him to leave it there, but he finds himself opening his mouth again. "But you have to wonder sometimes, don't you? If there is anything... supernatural out there."

Dean goes quiet for a moment.

"I mean, I don't believe in any of that," he adds hastily. "But I meet a lot of people, and some of them can be convinced that it was ghosts, or demons or something that killed their loved ones."

"I guess it's just a coping mechanism. People can be sick sons of bitches sometimes, so I guess it's easier to believe it was a monster that did it because they don't want to face reality."

He sighs.

"My mom... uh, she always used to tell me angels were watching over me."

Castiel stiffens, but Dean doesn't seem to notice.

"Every night, when she said goodnight. Always the same line. 'Angels are watching over you'. Course, then she died, and my dad wasn't really one for fairytales. But still, I guess I kinda believed it. I mean," he adds hastily, "I was young, you know? I was still little, and I believed everything my mom told me."

"And now what? You don't believe in angels?"

"I guess not. I'm not religious. But even if I were... if angels existed, if God existed, why would they let all this happen?" He waves a hand. "Bad things happen. Don't you think if there was someone out there looking out for us, then the world might be a better place?"

"Good things do happen, Dean."

"I know that. It's just... I got into an accident. About six months ago now, give or take. There was an electrical fire and I got hurt pretty bad. Took ages for the burns to heal. I've still got scars. I mean, if I've got a guardian angel, he's doing a pretty crappy job, is all."

He must see the stunned look on Castiel's face.

"Wow, this got serious. Sorry."

"No, it's... it's ok."

Dean stretches, wipes his hands on a dirty rag.

"Well, I'd better be heading off."

"Me too."

"Do you need a lift or something?"

He hesitates. He was going to call Kate, ask her to pick him up, but if Dean's offering...

"Thank you. It would be much appreciated."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

When they pull up outside the motel, Castiel starts to get out, but Dean stops him.

"Hey, do you... do you want me to ring you when the car's done?"

"Oh, I thought the garage would..."

"Yeah, obviously. I just meant, I can call you as soon as I've finished. If there's no-one else there."

"Thank you."

Dean fishes out a scrap of paper and black biro, and Castiel jots down one of his phone numbers. After a moment's pause, Dean scribbles down his in messy handwriting, tears it off, and hands it to the angel.

"In case you need to get in touch with me."

"Why would I..." Castiel starts, but Dean flushes. "Thank you," he finishes lamely.

Dean waves at him as he gets out the car, and Castiel watches his car disappear around a bend in the road. As Dean goes out of sight, Kate sticks her head out of the door.

"Hey, Castiel! I was wondering where you'd got to. Who was that?"

He's not sure how to answer. A friend? A stranger?

"Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to be nosy. He was cute, though."

"Sorry?"

"He was cute. And," she sees the piece of paper in his hand and beams. "He gave you his number?"

"In case I need to get in touch with him. He's working on the car."

"Right," she says slowly, but is still grinning.

"You don't believe me?"

"Yeah, I believe you."

He can't help but feel like he's missing something.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"No reason."

He's thoroughly confused now, but somebody decides to ring the bell at the reception desk at that moment. Kate hears the sound, shrugs apologetically, and ducks back inside to see to her customer.

Castiel shakes his head, and unlocks his door. He has a feeling he will never get used to humans. Every time he thinks he has it figured out they go and do something that surprises him, or confuses him, and he is reminded once again of what strange creatures they are.

The next afternoon his phone rings. He looks down at it; surprised. There's nobody that should be calling him. Hardly anybody has this number; a few hunters that he's met while working cases across the country, but that's it.

The caller ID is unfamiliar. Hesitantly, he picks it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey! Is this Castiel?" Dean's familiar, warm voice replies from the other end.

"Um... yes."

Now he remembers. This is the number he gave to Dean the night before. He hadn't got round to saving Dean's number; didn't think he'd need to. He was going to finish this job, leave town and move on, and never see the ex-hunter again.

"Is the car fixed?"

"Er, no. Those parts are gonna be a few days yet."

His first feeling is disappointment, then curiosity.

"Why are you ringing me, then?"

Dean is silent for a moment. On reflection, that might have sounded a little harsh, a bit too abrupt. He still has to remind himself to be mindful of other people's thoughts and feelings sometimes. If a witness won't answer his questions clearly, if he gets into an argument with someone, he gets annoyed and forgets for a moment that he needs to tread carefully. This was so much easier when he was communicating with angels. There were no feelings to be hurt. Conversation was direct, to the point.

"I... I was just wondering, if maybe..."

"Maybe, what?" Why does Dean sound so nervous all of a sudden?

"Maybe you'd like to go out for coffee or something? Today?"

There's a brief silence.

"I mean, if you're not too busy with work or anything."

The silence from Castiel's end stretches on.

"Um, you know what? Never mind. I guess I... sorry about that..."

"I'd like that."

The words come out of his mouth before he can stop them. He knows he should be staying away from Dean, staying away from anything that might tempt him to do something irrational and destroy this life that Dean has, that Dean wanted. Yet something in his mind tells him that it can't hurt. There's no risk of Dean's memories being triggered, or returning completely. He did his job well; maybe a little too well. He is cut off from Heaven, from Heaven's power, and a task that large sapped a lot of his grace. Still, it worked, and he's managing using only as much of his angelic powers as necessary.

"Really? Great, great. I'll, uh, pick you up at four, then? I'll be off work by then."

"That sounds good."

"Great," Dean repeats. "Um, see you later then."

"Goodbye."

He hangs up the phone. A part of him wonders why Dean sounded so embarrassed, and so relieved when he accepted. Going out for a drink, that's what people do, isn't it? That's what friends do. He supposes they could be classed as friends now. He's not entirely sure. Human relationships are so confusing, so complex. Still, he'd like to spend some time with Dean. Even though he knows it's for the best, sometimes he misses him. He has to keep telling himself that Dean is happy, and that should mean that he is happy too. He wants his friend to have that life he always dreamed of, that life he could have had if it weren't for the yellow eyed demon who'd taken it all away from him over twenty years ago. Hadn't he told himself, all those months ago when he went back to that barn, that he'd be content as long as Dean was smiling? True, he'd imagined that he would be the one to make him smile, that he would stay by his side, his guardian angel. But as long as Dean is happy, as long as that pain he was suffering is taken away from him, that is enough. Randomly, he thinks of a line from poetry. He's not sure where it's come from, where he's heard it. It might be one of the endless references Dean always insists on making, most of which he doesn't understand.

_'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all._

Actually, it might not have been Dean. He usually talked about popular culture; films, television, celebrities. It might have been Sam he'd heard it from. Or one of his brothers or sisters. Or he might even have been there when it was written. It doesn't matter. It's true.

He'd loved Dean. And he'd lost him. The person who'd just called him was still Dean Winchester, but not the same one he'd raised from perdition. But he'd rather have only memories than nothing at all.

When Kate asks him if he needs driving around today, he declines. There's nothing he can do now; the trail's gone cold, it's just a matter of waiting for the nest to resurface when the creatures get hungry. Eventually they'll start hunting again.

"Alright," she shrugs. "Well, I'm not busy today so just shout if you need anything."

"I will."

"Bet you can't wait 'til your car's fixed. You won't have to put up with me talking in your ear all the time."

"No, I... I enjoy the company."

"I talk too much, I know. Did that handsome mechanic from last night tell you when it was gonna be ready?" she asks, a teasing glint in her eye. "I only saw him through the window, but seems like you two really hit it off."

Castiel feels his face grow hot. It's one of the human responses that has always irritated him. Kate laughs.

"See, I knew I wasn't imagining it! So, what's his name?"

"Dean."

"Nice name."

"I suppose," he frowns. He's never really thought about it. What makes a nice name, anyway?

"Do you like him?"

The question throws him off for a second.

"Sorry, sorry! I'm so nosy..."

"Yes."

Kate raises her eyebrows.

"Just like that? 'Yes'?"

"Yes, I do like him. He... he reminds me of someone I used to know. A long time ago."

"Your friend?"

"What?"

"You looked sad. You only look like that when you're talking about your friends. The ones you... lost."

"I never realised. Yes. He does. But... he's different."

"Good different?"

"Different. He's happier, for a start."

They both trail off into silence.

"We're going out for coffee later."

Her head snaps up.

"Really? Wow! I'm so happy for you!"

"Why? Why does two people going out to get coffee make you happy?"

"Well, you're obviously into him. And it looked like he was into you."

"What do you mean by 'into'?"

"You said you... liked him... Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?"

"Not really."

"You're going out for a drink. That's kinda like a date, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

She stares at him incredulously.

"Seriously?"

"I don't understand..."

"Okay, okay."

She stretches, then leans forward to look at him intently.

"Is it a date?"

"I don't... know..."

"Right. Did he ask you?"

"Um... yes."

"Did he seem nervous? Scared? Shy?"

"I'm not good at... I suppose he seemed nervous."

"And when you said yes?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was he excited? Did he sound happy?"

"He sounded... mostly relieved."

Castiel has no idea where this conversation is going. Kate, on the other hand, beams.

"Sounds like a date to me."

Could it be true? Did Dean ask him on a date? Until now he'd just assumed it was a friendly meeting, a gesture of politeness. But if it was a date... He had little experience of these matters. He doesn't think the time Dean took him to lose his virginity counts. He shudders at the memory. He has no idea why Dean found the situation so hilarious. And he doesn't even want to think about that encounter with Meg...

"Oh."

She looks expectant.

"Oh? Oh? Come on! You should look a little happier. I mean, that guy, Dean... he was seriously hot. Man, why are all the good-looking ones always gay?"

"Gay? No, he's not..."

"Seriously? He asked you out."

He wants to protest. Dean isn't gay. He knows that for certain. He's never shown the slightest interest in men, not in all the time Castiel has known him. If he did, Castiel never picked up on it. Yet... this isn't the same Dean. He has different memories, had led a different life. And now he thinks about it... but surely that doesn't count? The harmless flirting was just friendly, humorous. Dean never meant any of it. Unless he did, and was just acting casually to see how he would react to it.

"Hey! You've gone quiet."

"Oh. Yes. Sorry."

Maybe Kate can see how distracted he is, can sense how his mind is spinning as he tries to work out what is going on.

"Alright. Well, good luck with later."

He doesn't answer.

"I'm gonna go... yeah..."

She trails off as she realises he isn't really listening.

"Well, see you."

"Um, yes. Goodbye."

Dean arrives promptly at four, just as promised. He's dressed casually, in a dark shirt and jeans. When he sees Castiel he smiles, then coughs and shuffles a little awkwardly.

"Hey."

"Hello."

They both get in the car, and although he doesn't say anything Castiel can see Dean looking at him. He hadn't even thought about what he was going to wear; Jimmy Novak's suit and coat had become like a second skin to him, but Kate had protested. She hadn't been able to resist coming round to talk just before Dean arrived, and had refused to let him go out 'looking like that'.

"I've never seen you out of those clothes. Aren't they uncomfortable?"

"No, they're... they're fine."

"Well you can't go out on a date like that. I think I've got some old clothes of Greg's lying around somewhere. Give me ten minutes."

The jeans and jacket she handed him are a little too big, but they're comfortable, and cooler than the bulky suit and coat in the warm air. The coffee shop is small, quiet, tucked away in a corner, and almost empty. They get a seat by the window and sit opposite each other, cradling their hot drinks.

"So, uh, how's that case coming along?"

"Good. I'll probably be finished in a few days. I've just got to fill out some... paperwork. You know, official stuff," he says, trying to sound wise while actually having no idea what he's talking about.

"Oh. Cool."

Dean coughs, and shifts a little in his seat. "Man, I'm sorry. This is kinda awkward. I haven't really done this in a while."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Why, is that surprising?"

It is, a little. In all the time Castiel had known Dean, he'd never seemed to have any trouble attracting attention. He often noticed him turning heads in the street; women, and occasionally men, seemed to gravitate towards him.

"I didn't think you'd have any trouble getting a date."

Dean laughs.

"Thanks, you're not too bad yourself."

His cheeks redden and he takes a sip of his drink to avoid meeting Dean's eye, coughing when he burns his tongue on the hot liquid.

"What, you don't believe me?" Dean leans forward and lowers his voice. "The girl at the counter's been checking you out since we walked in."

Immediately Castiel turns around to stare at the girl, who immediately turns her back and starts scrubbing the counter furiously.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Oh."

"Plus," Dean reaches over and picks up the receipt. "She gave you her number."

"I thought she was just being friendly."

Dean stares at him.

"Seriously? She put kisses on it."

"Is that what those little crosses mean?"

Dean laughs.

"Man, you're... you're really something."

"Um, yes. I am."

"No, I mean... you really couldn't tell?"

"I'm not good with people," he mutters, staring down at his coffee. Dean looks like he's about to say something, then changes his mind and looks out the window instead. Eventually he seems to change his mind again and leans forward over the table.

"Look, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"What?"

"Do I... do I know you?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Okay, so before I start I realise I've taken way longer than usual to update. Just wanted to say I'm sorry, and I'll try and update as soon as possible from now on!**

His mouth goes dry. Suddenly the small shop seems too small, too confined, and he wants to spread his wings and get out of there.

"Wha... do you recognise me?"

"No, no. It's just... never mind. It's stupid."

"You can tell me."

"It's nothing."

"Dean," he says forcefully, looking earnestly into Dean's green eyes. "There is nothing that you cannot say to me. It won't sound stupid, or unimportant." Instantly he thinks he may have been a little too vehement; Dean looks a little surprised, and he forces himself to lean backwards, make his body language more casual.

"Alright. Just... sometimes you look at me, and it's like I've known you for years. I mean, I could've sworn I met you for the first time yesterday, but then you look at me like I'm your best friend or, or something. It's only when you think I'm not paying attention, when you let your guard down. And I don't remember you, but I was wondering if maybe you knew me from somewhere and I just forgot."

"Oh," is all he can manage. In a way, he's relieved. For a second there he'd thought that Dean's memories were returning, if something had undone his work, and he didn't know if he would be powerful enough to restore the fake ones. But at the same time, he's surprised. He didn't realise he'd been so obvious. He's been trying, he really has, not to give anything away. But this is _Dean_. The righteous man, the one he dragged from hell, the one he's died more than once trying to protect. While Dean may be an accomplished, professional liar, he is not. He's only just begun to experience emotions, he is still struggling hiding them from others when he needs to.

"So..."

He remembers Dean is still waiting for an answer. His mind is torn. He could tell the truth. He could come clean about everything, about what he's done. Or...

"No. I don't know you. I've never met you before."

"Sure?"

"Yes. You just... remind me of somebody I used to know. That's all."

"I guess I must just have one of those faces."

"You have... a face..." he frowns in confusion. Dean laughs.

"Never mind."

From then on Dean seems more relaxed, easier in his speech, and they're on their third cup each before Castiel's phone beeps. With an apologetic look at Dean, he pulls it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen.

_One new message._

It's from Kate.

_Hey, how's it going?_

He rolls his eyes and puts the phone away.

"Anything important?"

"No, just Kate."

"Who's Kate?"

"She works at the motel. She's been driving me around until _somebody _finally fixes my car. I'm beginning to think they've just given up on it."

Dean looks comically shocked.

"Why, could that possibly be _sarcasm? _I was beginning to think you'd had a sense of humour transplant."

"No, I just don't laugh at things that aren't funny."

"Yeah? Well..." Dean searches for a witty retort, and, obviously failing, settles for sticking his tongue out like a petulant child. "So there."

"Very mature," Castiel notes drily.

"Whatever. So this Kate girl, she's not your... girlfriend, or anything?" Dean asks lightly.

"What? No. No!"

"Oh. That's... yeah. Cool."

"Cool? I don't see how temperature... that's not what you meant, is it?"

"No, it's not," Dean laughs.

"So," he feels the situation demands he asks the question. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Me? No way. Not really my thing."

"Oh." He remembers Dean's earlier comment about not going out on dates. "You're not looking to be in a relationship?"

"You offering?"

The stunned look on his face must be hilarious, because Dean bursts out laughing. He's sure Dean's laughed more in the past few hours than he's ever seen him laugh before.

"No, I meant girlfriends. Not really my thing."

Castiel stares blankly, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"I like dudes." He looks worried. "Do you... I mean..."

"I don't have a problem with it, if that's what you're thinking," he says. "I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation."

"Uh, yeah, that's... never mind."

"What?"

"I didn't mean that..."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I meant... are you... you know?"

"I don't think I do."

"Are you gay?" Dean almost shouts, a bit louder than he'd meant to judging by the flush that rises to his cheeks.

Castiel takes a second to think of his answer. He's an angel, genderless. Technically, it's impossible for him to be gay. But his vessel, the body he's possessing, is definitely male. And even though Jimmy Novak was completely heterosexual (apart from that one time in high school he'd insisted never happened), that didn't affect Castiel, his own feelings and desires. He chooses his words carefully, slowly.

"I believe in falling in love with a person, not a sex. I don't think that whether somebody is born male or female should affect your feelings for them. Love should be regardless of gender."

"Wow, that's... that's deep, man."

"You don't feel the same?"

Dean shrugs.

"I like guys, not chicks, that's all. I realised... I think it was my last year of high school. I was kissing some girl- I don't even remember her name- and I just thought 'this isn't doing anything for me'. And then I decided I liked boys."

"As simple as that?" He can't help but sound sceptical. The Dean he knew would never have talked so freely about something like this, would never have admitted something like this so carelessly.

"Yeah. Well," he shrugs. "When my dad found out he was... less than pleased. He was kinda old-fashioned. Small town guy, ex-Marine...my whole life he taught me to do man stuff. And I guess after mom died it kinda got outta hand. I was his only son, he was gonna raise me like a man. It wasn't his fault. The day I told him-" he breaks off, and bites his lip.

"It's okay. You don't have to tell me."

"No, I'm fine... I came home with my boyfriend. I think his name was... Rick. Or something like that. And my dad mentioned how happy he was that I'd bought a friend round, that I never really had friends over. When I told him we were more than friends... he lost it. Kicked me out the house. Said no son of his was gonna be... how did he put it again? A fucking queer, I think that was it. Anyway, I crashed at Rick's for about a week, and by the time I went home it was like he'd forgotten about it. We just never mentioned it again. It was like, he pretended it hadn't happened, you know?" He looks out of the window for a few seconds, distantly, then turns back to Castiel. "How did your family take it?"

"Take what?"

"When you came out."

"Oh, they... I, er, didn't. I'm not exactly close to my family. I don't think most of them would mind-" his mind drifts to Gabriel and Balthazar in particular. "But some of them wouldn't take it too well."

"Are they not cool with it, or something? 'Cause I've seen tons of that... second you mention you're gay, people start looking at you differently."

"I don't think it's that... there was somebody. And my brothers and sisters didn't... approve."

Internally, he winces as he remembers. The memories are all too clear in his mind. When angels disobeyed orders, when they began to show emotions, doubts, the consequences were severe to say the least. He remembers vividly being summoned to return to Heaven and the punishments that he'd been put through there. When he'd returned to Earth, he'd tried to force himself to remain above the Winchesters, to not risk getting emotionally involved, and when Dean had asked him what was going on muttering through clenched teeth '_I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You.'_

"What, so you just let them push you around?"

"No. I rebelled."

"You rebelled? What, against your parents or something?"

"Something like that."

"So you chose this guy over your own family?"

"I- I suppose, yes."

"Huh. How'd it work out between you?"

"It didn't last. I did what was best for him. It's... it's complicated," because that's all he can say, really.

"Huh," Dean says again, but quieter this time.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Could you... could you do me a favour?"

"Of course. What?"

"Close your eyes a second."

Castiel does as he's told, a little confused.

"I don't..." he begins, but his sentence is interrupted when he hears Dean stand up and lean across the table, and before he can register what is happening their lips meet and he decides not to try and finish that particular sentence.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The sun has set by the time he gets back to the motel that night, closing the door behind him and smiling softly in the darkness before flipping the lights on and getting undressed, folding the clothes carefully and making a mental note to give them back to Kate in the morning.

They'd kissed twice after that. Once when they'd left the coffee shop, before they stepped out into the pouring rain that had started out of nowhere, standing under the striped awning and listening to the raindrops beat down onto the fabric above their heads. Once just a few minutes ago, when Dean had pulled up and smiled shyly at him, the streetlight above them casting deep shadows across his face.

"I had a good time tonight."

"Me too," he'd smiled back. This time it was he who leaned across to Dean, and this time he kept his eyes wide open, wanting to drink in every little detail of this moment, unable to believe that it was really happening. If he could dream, he would have half expected to wake up any second. Eventually they'd separated and whispered their goodnights.

He all but collapses onto the bed, but doesn't go straight to sleep. He knows he should, that he needs to rest, that he'll regret it if he doesn't, but his mind is spinning.

This is wrong. He shouldn't be doing this. Didn't he promise himself, months ago, that he'd stay away from Dean? Yet here he is, doing the exact opposite. The logical part of his brain is telling him to get out, to leave the Impala, buy a cheap car, and get as far away from Kansas as possible. He'd made his decision; Dean's happiness over his own.

Although...

When he'd been working cases across the country, he'd met a few other hunters. Their acquaintances had been brief; he preferred to work alone, not making an impression, but in some cases it had been unavoidable. One of them in particular, Castiel couldn't remember her name, had told him about her boyfriend back home.

"He has no idea I do this," she'd admitted during a stake out. "He just thinks I travel a lot for work."

"Don't you feel uncomfortable, lying to him like that?"

"Well yeah. But at the same time, I'm keeping him safe. The less he knows, the less of a target he is."

If she could make it work, why couldn't he? After all, that's what Sam had done when he was dating his girlfriend Jessica. From what Castiel had heard from him, she'd never known about how he was raised, what his father and brother really did for a living. It wasn't ideal, but if there is a glimmer of hope that he could be with Dean and protect him from what was really out there...

"No."

He speaks the word to the empty room. No. He can't do this. It's not fair, on him or on Dean. And besides, he made a promise. He'd promised to leave Dean alone, and that's what he's going to do.

Nothing good ever happens to the people he cares about. He's learned that much through thousands of years of experience. First, his brothers and sisters. Anna, who fell. Gabriel, who ran away. Balthazar... he shudders and pushes that memory away. He can't bear to think about it. But even the humans, the people he holds- or held- dear... they never have happy endings. Sam, Dean, the others. He thinks about all the people he's affected, all the humans he's tried to help and failed. Nobody's heard from Chuck for years now. Ellen and Jo- if he'd been smarter, if he hadn't gotten himself trapped in the holy fire, he could have helped them. Pamela- he burned the psychic's eyes out, didn't he at least owe it to her to protect her? The list goes on.

No, it's better that he leaves Dean alone, for everybody's sake. It's surprisingly easy to make the decision. He's known all along, he supposes. It was never going to work.

He thinks for a few minutes. He won't call Dean now. It's too late, and besides, to ring him only a little while after they last saw each other... no. He'll wait for a little while, until the car's fixed. He won't tell Dean until then, until he can take the Impala and get away as quickly as possible, but he'll try and distance himself from the other man. And then he can leave, and Dean will never see him again, and maybe he'll finally have his chance at the normal life he always wanted.

Satisfied, he turns over and manages eventually to slip into what passes for him as sleep.

He's woken by the shrill ringing of his mobile. After a few moments of groping along the sideboard to find the phone, he sits up and checks the screen, squinting against the sudden bright electronic light.

The first thing he sees, in the corner of the display:

_3:02 am_

Confused, Castiel checks the caller ID. Nobody should be ringing him at this time, unless it's a real emergency. Even then, there's only a small group of hunters and other acquaintances who have this number.

_DEAN WINCHESTER calling._

He groans, and presses the answer button. Why is Dean calling him so soon after he dropped Castiel off at the motel?

As he presses the phone to his ear, he takes in the situation properly and dread begins to settle in the pit of his stomach. There's no reason for Dean to be calling him this early. Even if there was something important he needed to tell Castiel, surely he'd wait until a more reasonable time.

So it hardly comes as a surprise to him when, instead of a reply to his gruff _"hello?", _he only hears quiet sobs coming from the other end of the line.

"Dean? Is that you? Are you alright?"

"C-Cas..."

"What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"Cas, I... I don't... please..."

The angel is about to reply when he hears a noise in the background. Frowning, he listens closer. It sounds like somebody coughing, the shuffling of feet.

"Dean is... is there anybody else there?"

"They... they said..."

"Okay, calm down. Who are they?"

"I don't... they broke into my apartment. My neighbour, he..."

"It's alright. Just try to talk calmly."

"He heard noises, came to help... they just ripped him apart, Cas. They drank his _blood_. And their teeth..."

Castiel feels his blood run cold. Even in the panic, some part of his brain notes coolly that although he always thought that was just a metaphor, it's true. It feels as if his veins have frozen to ice, and he is paralysed, unable to move or do anything to help the situation.

"Vampires..."

"Huh?"

"Nothing," he says, but inside he is screaming his stupidity, his blindness. He's been so occupied with other things, he just assumed they'd gone underground, tried to hide their trail, when really they never really went away.

"Cas, I..." there is a muffled noise, and a gasp, and then the voice on the other end changes. The new speaker is male, in his mid forties if Castiel had to guess an age. His voice is deep, but smooth as melted chocolate.

"Sorry, Dean's a little busy at the moment, I'm afraid."

"If you've hurt him..."

"Oh don't worry, I won't lay a finger on him. After all," and Castiel can practically _hear_ the smirk, "I've just eaten."

"I-"

"Can't say the same for my friends though. They're hungry."

"Starving," he hears a voice chime in from the background.

"What do you want?"

"Temper, temper. Won't make friends with that attitude, you know."

"What do you want, _please_?"

"Don't try to be a smart-ass with me."

The voice turns low, dangerous, almost animalistic. Castiel stays silent, and when the vampire speaks his tone is light-hearted and easy again.

"Better. So here's the thing: we know you've been following us. Have done for a while. Let me tell you, for a hunter... not so big on the subtlety, are you? I'm gonna get right down to it; at first, I was up for leaving here, getting away from this town. From you. But then I thought, _hey, wait a second, this Castiel guy sounds familiar. _So I asked around. And guess what? I was right."

"I don't..."

"Pittsburgh. Pennysylvania. About, ooh, three months back? You roll into town, slaughter a nest of newborns. Hooray, hunter wins again, monsters are dead, everybody happy, right? Thing is, one of those, uh, _monsters_... she was my daughter."

"You... what?"

"Yeah, I got turned a few years back. Eventually, when I knew I could control the bloodlust thing, I went after my family. Thought if I turned them, we could be a big happy family again. And then her mom died..."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. Whiny bitch wouldn't shut up. When I showed her my fangs, she freaked, attacked me. I killed her. You gonna let me finish? It was just us two, and I thought _what the hell_. So I turned her, turned a bunch of others too. They were going to join me when they were strong enough, we were going to find somewhere out the way, somewhere we could live in peace, not bother anyone. And then, you show up."

"I'm sorry, I didn't..."

"Don't care. Listen, this, uh, _Dean_ guy? We saw you two together. Figured best way to get to you was through him. Here's the deal: you get here. We let him go, we kill you, everyone's happy."

"Why would I..."

"God, are you an idiot? Because if you don't turn up..."

There is a pause, and Castiel can hear Dean in the background. By the sound of it, the other vampires- and he still has no idea how many there are- have got hold of him, and Castiel can hear him grunting and cursing and fighting against them, the sounds of a struggle only occasionally punctuated by a quiet, muffled sob.

"You're going to kill him?"

"Oh no. No, no, no, that would be far too simple."

"Then what?"

"We're going to turn him. And while he's in agony, while he's going through that _painful _transformation, we're going to tell him how this is your fault, how you did this to him, how you could have saved him. We are going to twist him and turn him into a monster, and then we're going to set him on you."

He takes a moment to let that sink in, and then rattles off an address.

"You have one hour. If you're not here by then..."

"I get it," Castiel says, not bothering to disguise the hatred and disgust in his voice.

"Just making sure we're on the same page. One hour. Goodnight."

The line goes dead.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

There are five of them; two outside the building and three in Dean's apartment.

Castiel plunges the knife into the nearest vampire's chest, blade crusted a dark, ugly red with dead man's blood. The monster recoils, hissing at him through pointed fangs, giving him time to turn and throw the other to the ground as she races towards him. With deft, precise, well-practised moves, he draws the long, curved blade, one of many he found in the trunk of the Impala, from inside his coat and decapitates her, gritting his teeth as he forces the knife through her neck.

The head falls to the ground, dulling eyes staring up at him with venom, and before he can turn around he is thrown heavily against the wall.

He struggles, kicking his leg out, attempting to push the second vampire away, but he's more focused on craning his neck away from those sharp fangs inching closer to the exposed flesh. His weapon lies uselessly on the ground, out of reach, and he quickly analyses the situation.

The vampire is strong, stronger than he'd anticipated. There's no chance of distracting him, no way he'd be able to reach the knife.

He takes his hand away from the creature's neck, slides it under his coat. When he draws it out again, he is grasping the angel blade tight in his fist, preparing to strike. The darkness and shadows hide the sword from the vampire's view, and when he lunges the monster's surprise is evident on his face as his head slowly topples to the ground.

Castiel takes a moment to get his breath back, heaving the vampire's still body off him. It collapses to the floor, and he steps over it, stashing the weapon back into his coat and picking up the knife from where he dropped it before striding into the building. He doesn't know whether the other vampires are aware of his arrival, but they will be expecting him anyway. He takes the stairs two at a time, and quickly arrives at the third floor. Pausing for only a second to glance at the still fresh reddish brown stain splashed on the walls and floor (_the neighbour_, he thinks), he decides to abandon subtlety and instead opts for kicking the door open, wood splintering, sending the room into a panic.

The first thing he notices is that there aren't three vampires in the cramped apartment. Not three at all. The others must have been hidden from view when he scoped out the building from across the street, or had arrived afterwards. He's not sure. There are at least ten of them, all on their feet, all staring at him with hungry eyes and bared fangs, muscles tensed. He takes a step backwards, giving himself some space, time to make a decision, but a low growl behind him makes him snap his head to the side. He didn't hear the one that must have followed him into the building, watched him the whole time as he ran to find Dean.

"So glad you could make it."

Slowly, he turns his head back to the room, eyes scanning the faces to see who had spoken.

"It's nice to finally meet you in person," the slow drawl continues, and now he can put a face to the voice. Blonde hair, elegantly combed, his dark suit perfectly ironed and pressed, not a crease in his starched white shirt. He appears a little younger than Castiel had been expecting.

"I wish I could say the same to you," he replies calmly. The head vampire laughs, presses a hand to his chest.

"Harsh words, Castiel. I'd like to remind you who has the hostage here."

_Dean._

"If you've hurt him..."

"Oh don't worry, he's fine. For now."

The blonde man nods to a couple of the others, who by now have formed a rough semicircle around the angel, effectively trapping him beside the door. They move aside, revealing in the centre of the room...

"Dean!"

The other man's green eyes are wide, his muscles tensed as he struggles against the ropes binding him to the armchair. He tries to speak, but the rough cloth of the gag tied around his mouth smothers his words.

"It's okay. I'm going to get you out of here."

"An optimist, I see."

Castiel glares at the vampire.

"Let him go. Now."

"Of course. You two, cut the ropes. Because obviously, I've gone to all these lengths, all the trouble of engineering this, waiting until he was vulnerable, I've lost two of my best men, my family, already, just to untie him and let you both walk away." He raises one finger, frowns in exaggerated, fake confusion. "Oh, wait, no I haven't."

Castiel rolls his eyes, not bothering to conceal his disdain. Great. A smart one. He's met so many different types of creatures, some simply lost and scared, some genuinely psychopathic, but the smart ones are by far the most irritating.

"Will you just cut the crap?" he asks witheringly, and something flares up behind the vampire's eyes. It's a skill he learned from Dean originally; when you're hopelessly outnumbered, try to disarm the opponent by feigning confidence.

"Fine. So here's the deal. We let him go, but you stay here with us. Or, you stage a desperate rescue attempt, and we turn him. Your choice."

His shoulders slump. He'd come into this confrontation brimming with confidence, sure he could get them both out of here alive. But now, he's outnumbered. Even if he manages to kill one or two, they'll kill him or Dean before he has a chance to get any more of them. "Okay."

"Sorry? Didn't quite catch that."

"I said okay!" he calls out bitterly, glaring at the blonde man. "You can have me. Just let him go."

The vampire frowns for a split second, before regaining his composure.

"Just like that?" he asks dubiously, eyes watching Castiel warily.

"Yes. Like you said, the best way to get to me is through him. I want to protect him."

He stares at Castiel suspiciously for a few seconds, then does the unexpected; he throws his head back and laughs.

"Just like that," he repeats, but this time in an almost wondrous tone. "You know, in my head, I had you down as the big bad hunter type. Thought you'd at least put up a fight. But this, this is... this is pathetic." He shakes his head slightly, turning away, then lunges forward to scream in the angel's face. "You're pathetic!"

Castiel hardly flinches, maintaining eye contact, and the vampire takes a step backwards, looking him up and down.

"I thought you'd be a challenge. You know, the only thing that's been keeping me going was the thought of killing you, slowly, while you screamed the way she screamed when you murdered her. I thought it would be difficult. But I guess you're just like the rest of them. Ordinary. Weak."

"The rest of what?" he asks quietly. A glimmer of hope flares in the back of his mind, but he suppresses it quickly. He can't let himself get excited.

"Humans," the vampire spits. "Boring, weak, pathetic humans. You treat us like we're monsters, like we're something to be hated, to be reviled, but you know the truth? We are better than you. We are stronger than you."

A plan begins to formulate in Castiel's head. Carefully, now, he tells himself. He needs to do this right. Biting his lip and attempting to look broken, desperate, he stares pleadingly at the vampire.

"Please..."

"What?"

"Can I talk to him? Just for a second. Before I die," he begs, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

He appears to consider for a second, before shrugging. The semicircle parts to let Castiel through, and he crosses the room to where Dean is still struggling against the ropes. He crouches down so they are on level, and puts his hand over Dean's.

"I'm sorry," he says, just loud enough for the vampires to hear. Dean's eyes are scared, pleading, and he knows that were it not for the gag the ex-hunter would be telling him not to do this, asking him to save himself, not to sacrifice himself for him. Then he leans a little closer, lowering his tone so only Dean can hear, and speaking with a quiet urgency.

"When I give the signal, close your eyes and whatever you do, don't open them until I say so."

Dean looks confused, but nods his understanding anyway. Castiel gives him a quick smile that he hopes is reassuring, then stands and turns to face the nest again.

"You're right. I'm weak. I'm pathetic, But do you want to know what I'm not? Ordinary. Human."

"Then what are you?" the blonde vampire asks with a sneer, but Castiel can see him faltering. He smiles grimly.

"I'm an angel," he says. "You ass."

The vampires barely have time to register his words before he shouts over his shoulder.

"Now!" he screams, then has to hope that Dean closes his eyes in time because he summons every last bit of his grace, all his remaining power, focuses on the raw angelic energy surging through his veins, then with a cry he lets it all explode out of his body, sheer power filling the room in a flash of blinding white light that causes the lightbulbs to explode around his head and he knows that if he opened his eyes his wings would be unfurling behind him, filling the room, shadowy figures only an echo of what was really there. His ears ring with the sound of screams, but it's difficult to tell whether they're his or the vampires. Every cell in his body shrieks at him with the pain of unleashing this energy all at once, and he has to fight with all the willpower he has to remain in physical form, and not allow the force of his grace to rip apart his vessel. His back arches and he opens his eyes, but instead of seeing the room around him all he sees is a blinding, harsh white light and he knows that if any other creature were to see this their eyes would be burnt out of their skulls.

Eventually, after a few seconds that take an eternity, the light fades. His body relaxes, and his eyes adjust to the sight before him. The vampires are dead, lifeless forms scattered around the apartment in their attempts to flee, bloody holes where their eyes once were. Behind him he hears Dean's heavy, panicked breathing, and he quickly drops to his knees, untying the ropes with fumbling fingers and loosening the gag. Dean gasps for air, raising his shaking hands to his chest, but he still keeps his eyes firmly shut.

"You can look now."

Hesitantly, Dean opens his eyes, and they widen as he takes in the scene around him. To him, it must be terrifying; corpses lying around the room, faces twisted in macabre masks of agony and horror. Castiel waits patiently as Dean surveys the room, and then the green eyes alight on him, full of confusion and fear.

"You... there was a light..."

"That was... me..."

Dean swallows, tries to compose himself.

"I'm guessing there's a lot you haven't told me."

Castiel has to laugh at that, and Dean smiles back, although his face is white. He gets shakily to his feet, and the angel stands up to meet him.

"Look, I-" is all he manages before an agonising pain erupts inside his head and all the strength leaves his body. The last thing he sees is Dean's worried face and his hand as he reaches out to try and steady Castiel before he collapses to the ground and the world turns black.


	16. Chapter 16

**Hey guys!**

**First, I'd just like to say I'm so sorry it's been ages, there's been so much going on and my laptop's been acting up and I've got exams and I just...ARGH. So sorry about that.**

**But thank you so much to everyone who for some reason is still reading, and to all the people who've left reviews telling me to update because I really needed the motivation, so thank you!**

**I promise I will try to update as soon as I can, whenever I can, but thank you loads for putting up with me.**

**So on with the chapter!**

* * *

He tries to open his eyes and is instantly blinded by a burst of bright light. He sees dim shapes, colours, then shuts his eyes again.

"Cas! Please, man, you gotta wake up."

The voice is familiar. Someone important, but it's hard to remember when his head feels as though it's on fire. As he starts to wake up, he becomes painfully aware that every muscle in his body is screaming.

"Come on, please..."

The voice is more insistent now, more desperate. He starts to remember, the previous events coming back to him. There was...something about vampires...and...and...

"Dean."

The word is nothing more than a croaked whisper, and briefly he feels almost embarrassed that that was the best he could do.

"Cas! Are you alright?"

No, he's not. He takes a moment to assess the situation. His body aches, his throat hurts, and his head...

"Water," he whispers, and it's not until a glass has been handed to him and he's drained it eagerly that he realises. He shouldn't need it. He's never needed to eat or drink before, not really, never for anything other than simply enjoying the taste.

Slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain that erupts with every slight movement, he props himself up on his elbows and opens his eyes properly. Dean is standing over him, worry etched across his face, and he helps Castiel into a sitting position.

"Are you okay?" he repeats.

"I don't...what happened?"

"You don't know?"

He shakes his head, and Dean bites his lip.

"Those things...they got me...and then you...that light..."

That was it. He remembers now.

"You passed out, I moved you in here."

_Here_ would appear to be the bedroom; a small, plainly furnished room consisting of the bed Castiel is currently sat on, a wardrobe, some drawers and little else. Dean's bedroom, it would appear, and yet he's surprised. He can't imagine Dean living somewhere like this. True, the Dean he knew never had a proper bedroom, growing up sleeping in cheap motels and on the backseat of the Impala. Still, Castiel would have expected posters, perhaps, music collections, anything.

"Thank you. I think... I'm alright now."

It's a lie, of course, and one he can tell that Dean doesn't buy for a second, but he seems to decide to go along with it. He starts to say something, then bites his lip and frowns. After a while, he looks Castiel in the eye and evidently can't contain himself any longer.

"Look, could you please tell me what the _hell _is going on?"

The angel sighs. He expected this.

"Dean..." he says, reaching out to put a hand on the other man's shoulder. He's not exactly sure what the gesture is meant to do; comfort him, distract him, somehow explain everything to him without Castiel having to put it into words. Or maybe it's to reassure Castiel as much as Dean. To his surprise, Dean shrugs him off angrily.

"No. Don't do that. Who the hell are you?"

Castiel recoils.

"It... it's complicated."

"Yeah, damn right it is!"

He starts to speak, but can't think of the words, can't think of a way to protect Dean and give him the answers he wants at the same time. It's ironic. He can express himself in every language known to man, and a surprising number they don't, but words fail him at the moment when he needs them most.

"Castiel, please. I am really, really trying not to freak out here. But a bunch of... _things_, just broke into my apartment, they," he stumbles over his words briefly, "they, they _killed_ my neighbour. He was a nice guy. And they just..."

He shudders, and for a second looks as if he is about to start crying.

"And then, then they tell me they want my boyfriend because he fucking _murdered_ this guy's _daughter,_ and I can't even believe we're talking about the same person here because the Castiel I know is this, this hot, slightly socially awkward guy who looks like he wouldn't hurt a fly. And I thought they were crazy, you know, but I saw what they did to Joe, and I'm thinking, I dunno, drugs, maybe? But then he walks in and he's like a totally different person, and he just, he just _explodes, _for fu-"

He calms himself down, breathes deeply and relaxes.

"And there's this bright light, and then I open my eyes and they're all _dead_, and their _eyes_ are, are gone! So you have about a minute to explain this all to me because I seriously think I am going mad here and I... I'm scared, Cas."

"I'm your boyfriend?" Castiel asks, surprised, his mind catching up with Dean's outburst. "Wait, you think I'm ho-"

"Really?"

He cringes.

"Sorry."

"So?"

"It's a long story."

"I think I've got time."

Ten minutes later, Dean is staring at him, the silence between them deafening. What was intended to be a brief explanation turned into something rather more long-winded, prolonged further by Dean repeatedly interrupting to ask questions. When Castiel finished, Dean lapsed into silence, and he can't help but wonder how Dean is going to react. The revelation that supernatural beings exist, that a whole other world you'd spent your entire life not believing in, mocking those who did, is real... it can't be an easy thing to take in.

Castiel takes the moments of silence as an opportunity to surreptitiously examine the damage to his body. While there's no physical change, he can tell that something is wrong. He knew in those brief seconds before he passed out that he'd gone too far, that he couldn't afford to waste his power when he was cut off from Heaven, and had been for so long, but he hadn't been thinking properly. He is not entirely sure how much of his grace remains. It's certainly not as strong as it once was; instead of a bright, blinding light, it burns dimmer now, flickering, dull.

"They were vampires."

Dean's voice breaks the silence. "They were real... actual... vampires. With the fangs, and the blood, and the... oh god..." he trails off and sinks his head into his hands. After a few moments, he speaks again, muffled.

"Pardon?"

"You're an angel," he repeats, raising his head. His eyes are wide, and his voice is almost wondrous. "An angel. Do you...have..." he makes some strange gestures with his hands, waving them by his sides and above his head. Castiel frowns, wondering vaguely if he's suffering some form of temporary madness.

"Arms? Yes."

"No... you know, wings, halo, the whole thing."

"Actually, that's quite an interesting topic. A lot of your myths and imagery are only very loosely based on reality. I do have wings, although they're nothing like they appear in religious pictures. Human senses are too... limited to perceive what is truly there, you only see in three dimensions, there's so much more than what you experience. And we don't have halos, that image probably came from an attempt to capture on paper... or parchment, at the time, I suppose... the times a human accidentally witnessed an angel's grace, and lived to-"

"Cas," Dean interrupted. "Enough."

"Sorry. I get carried away."

"Not that your enthusiasm isn't encouraging, but kinda freaking out here?"

"Oh, yes."

"So," he sighs and stretches, "you're telling me vampires are real."

"Yes."

"And angels."

"Yes."

"And... and ghosts and demons and werewolves and all that crap."

"I'm afraid so."

"So, okay, say for a second I believe you, despite... _all_ the evidence to the contrary. Where do I fit into this? Why did they come after me?"

Castiel shrugs.

"I suppose they saw us together earlier and... decided that to get me, they'd have to get to you."

Dean nods, his face turned away, lost in thought, but Castiel is sure he can see the corners of his mouth twitch up in a smile as he remembers the previous evening.

"So what do we do now?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, hate to make a fuss, but my living room _is_ full of bodies."

"You seem very calm about this whole thing."

"What can I say? I figure, if this is a dream, it doesn't matter, and I should just go with it."

"And if this is real?"

"Well at least it can't get any weirder."

They both smile at that, but then Dean frowns and his smile fades.

"What?"

"I just thought... you said, you're an angel, and you have, uh, powers right?"

"That's correct."

"And, correct me if I'm wrong, but one of those powers includes mind control."

Castiel's heart sinks, and he chooses his words carefully.

"Well, not mind _control_, per se. More... influence. And manipulation."

Dean nods slowly.

"Look, I hate to sound... whatever, but... you didn't do anything to me, did you?"

He feels sick to his stomach. He'd hoped this wasn't what Dean was going to say, but still... how could he think that?

"No. No! I would never- I don't-"

"Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"You think... I manipulated you? That I controlled you into _liking _me?"

Dean looks horrified.

"What? No!"

"Then what?"

"When you... with the light..."

"My grace."'

"Come again?"

"That light. It was my grace. My power."

"Okay, when you did... the thing with your grace. I was... I was terrified. I mean, I didn't know who you were then. You were like someone else. Full on hunter mode. But when you told me to close my eyes, I just- I just _did _it. I trusted you, like _that," _he clicks his fingers. "I hardly know you, but it was like I knew you wouldn't hurt me. That you wouldn't ever hurt me. And I mean, I have a problem with authority figures. I don't do anything I'm told. But I trusted you like that, with all those, those _vampires_ against us. I don't think I've ever trusted anyone that much, especially not someone I only just met. So I just wondered..."

He doesn't know what to say.

"Dean...I would never...no, is the answer. I didn't manipulate you into trusting me," he says, figuring it's not technically _lying_. After all, he's never made Dean _trust_ him. It's just... not mentioning how he's manipulated him in other ways.

"Okay," Dean replies, and Castiel can see in his eyes that he's relieved, that he's satisfied.

He's not stupid, of course; he realises this is a remnant of the old Dean, the hunter, breaking through the false memories, but with that he's even more touched. He never realised, not in all the time they'd known each other, that Dean had that much trust in him. To be honest with himself, there is a small part of him that still believes that Dean hated his guts, the way he had when they encountered each other for the first time. Dean had shot him full of rock salt then stabbed him in the chest, and when Castiel managed to explain to him that he meant the hunter no harm, he still looked at him with barely concealed hate and fear. As first meetings go, it could have been a lot better. But now, Dean is telling him that he trusted him, that he had faith in him, enough to believe that he would get them both out of there alive, and that faith was strong enough to break through the barriers of the fake memories...he has to bite his lip to hide a small smile, and then he realises Dean is talking again.

"Tell you what, though... the way you burst in there, you way you took them all down. It was pretty badass. And I gotta say," he lowers his voice, and is he _blushing_? "Kinda hot."

Now Castiel really has to bite down on the inside of his cheeks to smother a smile.

"If you think all this flattery is going to get you lucky, you're wrong. Shut up."

"Make me."

He rolls his eyes, but he lets the smile show, and he's grinning as he kisses Dean, and he has to wonder why he never used this method of getting him to stop talking before.


End file.
